


Martin Blackwood’s Guide to a Happy Ending

by Clubsheartsspades



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A lot of poetry, Alternate Universe, Canon Asexual Character, Elias is a minor nuisance, Everybody Lives, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Non-Binary Jonathan Sims, Pining, Slow Burn, Some angst, There's plot, everyone is competent except Elias, scottish cottage aesthetic, soft, the entities exist but they're not a problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:29:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 191,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clubsheartsspades/pseuds/Clubsheartsspades
Summary: When Martin takes the job at Leitner's Investigative Centre for Supernatural and Occult Phenomena, he expects it to just be another ghost hunting job, where very mundane situations are prone to supernatural misinterpretations. What he gets, however, are very serious statements about very real encounters with very supernatural things.Now, he has to find his way through a sea of stories to try and figure out what's going on in this small Scottish village that seems to attract the supernatural like light attracts moths.Lucky for him, Tim and Sasha are always at his side.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 401
Kudos: 421





	1. How to fake competence … but confidently

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this because I want to see something nice happen to all of them.

Faking a degree is, contrary to popular believe, not that hard. All you need is a lot of courage (desperation works, too), quick thinking to make up answers on the spot, and – most importantly – more luck than any person should legally have. Now, a fake degree in biology or physics can become a menace to people’s health very quickly. It is also very easy to find out if the person faking it has any real idea of what they’re doing. There are enough experts, enough credible sources, and enough Wikipedia articles around to blow even the best liar’s cover. The trick is, therefore, to have a fake degree in a field that sounds fake itself.

Parapsychology for example.

And then apply to a position, where people probably won’t question your expertise (mainly because they have no idea themselves). All things Martin Blackwood (parapsychologist for roughly seven years now even though he is only twenty-eight) managed to navigate. Unfortunately, the small independent magazine on ghost hunting he had worked for, paid barely enough to pay his rent. With his mom now in a nursing home he had to find a better paid job.

That is why Martin Blackwood is currently standing in front of a modern looking office building that doesn’t fit the soft kind of village aesthetic that had greeted Martin on his way here. It looms over him, reaching into the sky like a thorn of glass and steel. On its front, Martin can read the words “Leitner’s investigative research centre for supernatural and occult phenomena” written bigger than strictly necessary. Too big and too long. Why not just call it The Leitner Centre or even The Leitner Institute?

Martin has to supress a shiver at that last thought. For some reason, he really does not like that name.

Never mind the name, this is where Martin is going to work from now on. A nice office job with flexible times he can adjust as he pleases as long as Leitner gets a monthly report on his supernatural stories. Already an improvement.

The entrance area is already bustling with people when Martin steps in. The hall itself is bigger than he had expected it to be, with a high ceiling, clusters of chairs and tables all around. Only a few of those are occupied with groups that don’t look like they would mix very well. People in well-tailored clean suits exchange papers with gruffy looking … Martin is tempted to call them adventurers. Men and women in dirty, but practical clothes, gashes and bandages on faces and hands, pointing to holes in their clothing from knives and bullets and claws? He isn’t sure, and he doesn’t want to intrude on whatever is going on here. For now. Instead he turns to the only desk, tucked away in the back of the hall. It’s dwarfed by the big sign above reading “Information”.

The woman behind wears a dress matching the style of the entire building; meaning it’s sharp without much pattern or décor. She sits in front of two computer screens, an empty cup next to her keyboard, a couple of coloured folders on the other side.

“Uhm, good… good morning!” Martin says. He smiles as best as he can this early in the morning with his anxiety choking him.

“Good morning.” She gives him a quick once over then nods like she approves of him. “You must be Mr. Blackwood.”

“Ye-yes, that’s me. Martin. Martin Blackwood.”

She nods again, types on her keyboard. “You are…”, a few clicks, a little typing, “There you are. Blackwood. Did you get your ID card?”

“Yes, I… yes.” Martin fumbles for a second before he shows her the new shiny ID he had worried about losing for his entire drive from London to Scotland.

She takes it and puts it through a scanner next to the coloured folders. “You have been assigned to our research team… 2-9. Now that’s weird…?”

“Excuse me? Weird in… what way?” Martin can already imagine in what way. In all the ways things can go wrong for him. _Excuse us, Mr. Blackwood, but it seems like we cannot hire you after all. There has been a mix-up, it seems. You seem to not be qualified for the job after all. Please leave now._

“Oh, nothing major.” She pulls a face at the screen, not noticing the tension leaving Martin’s shoulders all at once. “The third floor researchers are in charge of eyewitness statements and follow up. But your ID gives you access to the archives instead.”

Martin grabs the strap of his bag. It’s a new leather bag, nothing fancy, a parting gift from his former co-workers, but it helps him concentrate. _Right. Don’t slump, don’t fuss with your hands, I got this. I got this._

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. I have to e-mail your supervisor for their permission, run it past Mr. Leitner, and this will be sorted out in less than a week. It shouldn’t be a problem at all.”

“Oh… oh thank you.” He has to bite his tongue to keep himself from apologising again.

“So, your office is… on the third floor, the S-rooms.” She hands him his ID back with one hand and points to a pair of lift doors with the other. “The offices are not under any access restriction, don’t worry about your card. However, you won’t be able to use the library unless someone lets you in with their card. Again, that should be resolved at the latest next week.”

“Than-thank you!” Martin smiles. He’s about to apologise once again, just out of habit, when the secretary holds up her hand to wave someone over.

“Sasha! Sasha, can you” But she stops there. Martin turns to see another woman wave back, already on her way over to them.

“Perfect timing. Mr. Blackwood, this is Sasha James, your supervisor.”

Sasha is a tall, dark skinned woman, brown curly hair tied up with a bright green hair tie. Her glasses sit a little askew, headphones poke out from her skirt pocket swinging lazily back and forth when she moves, and one shoulder of the light jacket she’s wearing slipped down, revealing a bright red shirt underneath.

Martin stiffens up a little, extending his hand as politely as possible when she stops next to him. Only too late he notices that she’s carrying a bunch of papers and folders squashed up against her chest. She shifts the folders and papers, and shakes Martin’s hand a little awkwardly, but she smiles, so Martin takes that as a good sign.

“Martin Blackwood”, he says.

“Ah, the new guy, yes I remember. Sasha James, just call me Sasha, that’s all right.”

Martin nods, biting his tongue before he can stutter anything that might ruin this.

“Now, Sasha”, and the woman, Martin really needs to find out what her name is, explains the problem with his ID for a second. Sasha gives her okay quickly (it’s not as if it’s Martin’s fault but he finds himself relax nonetheless) and pulls a form from one of her folders while still (very impressively) balancing all the other things in her arms.

“If that was all”, she turns to Martin again, “I’m taking you with me.”

The secretary, Rosie it is, but Martin doesn’t want to just call her by her first name without any permission from her, waves them off with an approving smile. Martin follows Sasha, stuffing his ID back into his new leather bag.

“Can… can I help you?” He gestures to the papers in Sasha’s arms, but she just shakes her head.

“No, thank you, it’s alright, I might need you to press the buttons, though.” With that she smiles again. Martin finds that he already likes this job better than his former one. The job interview had been promising (mainly because he had not been asked if he knew any black magic spells or had ever been part of a coven dedicated to forces of darkness, which had all been parts of the job interview at the magazine), but actually being here, working here, it makes him smile even more. He’s actually excited, looking forward to working here.

“Third floor, right?” He presses the button when Sasha nods.

“For the research floors, you don’t need any ID”, she says before the doors are even closed. “Only for the library, artefact storage, the archives, and…” She taps her foot against the tiled floor. “I guess for the labs.”

“Labs?” Martin raises both eyebrows. He may be working for an institution dedicated to find and catalogue the supernatural but believing in all of it is maybe a bit much.

“For the artefacts.” Sasha readjusts her grip on some folders, hoists them up with one knee. “Some of them just… uhm… they’re weird. There’s a book that spits out bones, or a plastic bag of pure darkness, and oh yeah, a table that’s home to a creature that, if released, crawls out, kills you, and then replaces you. It’s kept under lockdown to make sure nobody gets hurt.”

“Oh.” What is he even supposed to say to that?

“I guess you didn’t have to deal with this kind of stuff where you worked before?”

“N-no, I mean, yes? A bit? But not this… this close?”

Sasha laughs at that. “Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it very quickly. Besides, this is not really our area. We’re researchers. So, no creepy liquified darkness that kills you in your sleep for us.”

He isn’t sure if that was a joke or actual a serious problem the labs and artefact storage have to deal with, but he smiles anyway. It seems the right response.

A pleasant voice announces the third floor right before a soft ding with which the lift doors slide open. Sasha steps out with Martin close behind. The corridor is open, very bright with white walls and the occasional abstract painting that has no other meaning than letting others find a meaning in it. He follows Sasha until the corridor ends in a high, open hall just like the entrance lobby. Benches and different kinds of chairs stand around round tables full of papers, folders, spreadsheets, boxes with more papers, and – to Martin’s surprise – a few tape recorders. Two clusters of four desks each stand randomly between the tables of paperwork. Martin turns around to the corridor they just left and finds that another corridor in the same stylish white (with just as many art works) leads right back to another lift probably. Light spills out from both of them, but the lights within the hall itself are not quite enough to fill the entire room. However, the entirety of the wall opposite to the corridors is glass that lets Martin overlook the green behind the building. When the sun is up, everything will be illuminated quite nicely. Until then, some dark puddles of natural darkness (in contrast to supernatural darkness) pool around the room.

“Oh wow.”

Sasha laughs when he says that. “Yes, quite nice, is it? Leitner likes to show off sometimes. He is too rich to be sane anymore.”

Martin bites his tongue again, just to be sure. He’s still the new guy. And already talking bad about his boss wouldn’t bode well for him.

Sasha loads the unholy amount of paper work onto one of the desks. For a second, she just straightens, moves her shoulders until she stretches with a groan.

“And people say, paperwork never hurts you, well.” She turns to Martin again. He doesn’t know what to do with himself, but luckily Sasha isn’t done with her explanation tour.

“This is my desk. That one”, she waves to the one right in front of hers, “that’s Tim’s. In research, we’re usually paired off into teams of three. We’re currently four”, she gestures to the four desks, “but that’s only temporary. Now, all this.”

The entire room of course.

“We process the statements of eyewitnesses. Everyone, who has seen anything that might be supernatural or occult in any way, writes a statement, that ends up here. Or well, in one of the research departments, really. We’re not the only one.”

Martin’s eyes fly through the room, growing wider and wider at the masses of paper around him.

“These are all encounters with the supernatural?” He cannot keep the slight note of panic out of his voice. This is so much more than what he is used to.

“Or the occult. Or the extra-terrestrial. Yes.” Sasha sighs. “From all over the world. Sometimes we have our collecting teams come and bring more statements in from all over the world. Let’s see…” She ruffles through the papers she put onto her own desk, flipping through quickly. “France, Italy, North America, oh here’s one from Greenland. From all over the world.”

Martin takes a moment. He looks around again. There is… nothing he can come up with. One day, someone could be buried under all this paper, crushed to death by the weight, and Martin wouldn’t even be surprised. _Maybe, this was a bad idea._

“It’s a lot, right?” Sasha pats the folder on her desk. “But! You’re not alone here!” She waves him closer. Martin really has nothing to say for himself. This is… too much.

“This is your desk”, she pats the only one free of anything except a screen, a keyboard, and a phone. It’s the one right next to Sasha’s. “Now, I’m probably supposed to give you a rundown of what you’re going to do from now on. And we have”, she clicks her phone on for a second, “a few minutes before Tim gets here. So, very quick rundown or rather the long version?”

“Uhm…” Again Martin spares a look over the room overrun by paperwork.

“Long version then.” Sasha flops down in her office chair and gestures for Martin to do the same before she starts explaining. “There are more research teams around, all specialised in different areas. People for cults, for aliens, for folklore creatures, and so on.”

“Oh yes!” Martin turns to his bag now discarded on the floor. “It said “researcher for general apparitions and transformations” on my contract.” He hadn’t known what to do with that term back then, now it made a lot more sense.

Sasha grins, gestures again for the rest of the room. “That’s us. Ghosts and mutants, that’s what Tim calls our department, but don’t let that stick, Leitner doesn’t like it.”

“Uhm… okay?”

“He’s not wrong. Tim, I mean. Ghosts come to us. And everything that has some kind of bodily change or, well, transformation of any kind. It crashes sometimes with mythical creatures. If someone saw a werewolf, where does that statement go? To the folklore guys or to the transformation guys? So it’s not unlikely that you’ll have to work with them together as well.”

“Okay?”

“This here is our shared office for statement identification. We’re six people, two research teams with three people each. Currently it’s just us four”, waving to the four desks, “but one day in the far of future, there will be new people and we can get back to being a trio.” She winks at him with a grin.

“Anyway, here we sort through statements, just decide if they’re real or not. Follow up, calling the statement givers if there’s anything else, then filing.” She points to the corridors. “The first two rooms from the lift are interview rooms. If you have a witness, if there’s someone following up, even if it’s a video conference, they go in there. Rooms S1 and S2. Then after that S3 and S4 are storage if a statement comes with an artefact – or if the statement itself is an artefact. Those get stored in there until the statement is filed and dealt with.”

Martin swallows. There was some talk about deadly creatures and a book spitting out bones, so he asks: “Is that… safe?”

“Hm? Oh, it’s fine. Most artefacts only kill you if you use them. If anything comes with a book, do not read it. Under no circumstances!”

“O-okay?” He is tempted to ask why, but if there’s a book that spits out bones, there is a chance of there being a book that _swallows_ bones as well. And he really doesn’t want to know.

“The next rooms are S5 and S6, pretty much break rooms, but the water cooker in S6 is broken, so we usually have our breaks in S5. There is also a canteen downstairs, but the food is…” She shakes her head. “Nope, not going there. Anyway, after those there are only S7 and S8 left. Storage again, but for statements this time. We file them into five categories, but the filing system is a talk that Tim is going to have with you.”

Martin nods. He’s not sure if he can remember all of this later, maybe he should have grabbed some paper to take notes, but it’s too late now, and he doesn’t want to interrupt Sasha.

“We file them digitally and in paper. For cross-referencing we keep the actual statements here, too. They wander into the archives after five years.” She rolls her eyes. It’s the first sign of actual disapproval he has seen so far. “We tried to tell Leitner that five years is a bit meagre. It’s not even five years since we filed it, but five years since _the statement was given._ We have old letters here, dating back to 1800, statements given two hundred years ago, and they go to the archives immediately after processing. If our scouts”, she pauses for a moment, “that’s what we call those, who collect statements from all over the world. If the scouts come back, they’ll sometimes bring statements from a year ago. But-“

“ _If?_ ” Martin can’t keep the squeal down.

Sasha pauses again. “It… well… sometimes they don’t. But we don’t really know why. Maybe they just found their true calling elsewhere and stayed.”

“You are very calm about this.”

She shrugs. “Nothing I can do, really. Leitner pays them really well, covers all their expenses, it’s a good deal if you want to see the world. But dealing with the supernatural… I don’t know. I’m glad I’m in research. The stuff we read sometimes, I… don’t want to meet these things.”

Martin nods. He’s not sure what he could say. Working for an institution dedicated to the supernatural is something very different from actually believing. He never really did. All the ghosts he reported on, all the spirits he gave insight on weren’t real, he thought. They were tricks of the light, just a shadow in the corner of your eye. This, right now, this sounds a lot more real. But maybe it’s not. Maybe this is a joke the employees here play along with? Just believe whatever people say, just pretend, it makes everything easier.

“Oh! One last thing before I forget it!” Sasha tips her forehead with her index finger. “The door to room S8, it’s easy to see, pretty much the only door without a number and it’s pale yellow. Better not go in there, there’s an interdimensional nightmare maze behind. Not always, but sometimes the door doesn’t lead to a storage room. We already removed all boxes and statements from there, so there shouldn’t be anything in, but better not try to store anything.”

Or maybe it’s not a joke and it’s real.

“How do you know?”

“We sent scouts in, or rather… Gertrude sent one of her assistants in. He kept reporting right until… he was taken.”

“Right.” _Right._ “And Gertrude was…?”

“Oh, she was a scout. Lived really long actually. But she’s retired now.”

Retired as in dead? Or retired as in just stopped working? Martin doesn’t know. Martin doesn’t _want_ to know.

“Right, now,” Sasha picks at her lip with her fingers, “where were we…?”

But before she can explain more of Martin’s nightmares, the lift doors give a cheerful ping that echoes through the corridor. Two voices follow the sound. Sasha perks up at her desk.

“Tim and Sarah, the remaining team.” She waves to the two empty desks in front of them.

The voices come closer, one of which is explaining something in great detail, but Martin can’t quite make out what they’re saying. Only when a man and a woman enter the hall, he finally understands the last part of a sentence, that clearly needs context.

“…actually seven and six. So I don’t take it, of course, I read enough about that stuff.”

The woman, Sarah, notices Martin first. She is smaller than Sasha, Martin realises when he gets up and holds out his hand, but she smiles just as easily and takes the offered handshake. And just like Sasha, she wears a green hair tie. It’s not as prominent in her blonde hair as it is in Sasha’s brown locks, but Martin notices nonetheless. She has a broad frame with wide shoulders, but soft curves instead of hard muscles.

“Sarah Anderson”, she introduces herself. “I suppose you’re the promised parapsychologist?”

“Uhm, yes, ye-yes. Martin Blackwood.”

The man, Tim, grins at him. He’s nearly as tall as Martin, but build like someone, who gets up extra early to go out for a run before work. For dramatic reasons, Martin thinks, he throws his braids over his shoulder before he takes Martin’s hand. His handshake is firm.

“Good to have you here, Martin.” With his other hand he claps him on the shoulder. “Tim Stoker, if there’s ever anything you need just tell me. Even if it’s gossip, especially if it’s gossip.”

“Tim don’t scare him!” Sasha throws a pen at him, but Tim dodges quickly, and it misses.

“That was a close one, Sash. You can’t just kill me like that! What would you do without me?”

Sasha just laughs. “Get work done.”

“Okay, that’s fair.” Tim lets himself fall into his chair. “So, Martin? Already had a tour around?”

Martin shuffles to his own desk, he’s sitting across from Sarah.

“Sasha already told me… uhm… a lot.”

“Sounds ‘bout right.” On his chair, Tim slips out of his light jacket, so that Martin can make out some colourful tattoos on dark skin, disappearing up into his sleeve. “Now, with our new found and desperately needed help, what’s on the plate today?”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but when she throws a look at Martin, she still smiles. There’s mostly fondness behind their bickering, no real heat.

“You’re still on the Elliot case, Tim, don’t think I forgot.”

Tim winks at Martin. “Worth a shot.”

Sarah leans to one side, just a little so that she can actually see Martin over the tower of papers on her desk.

“Hey, we can share the unidentified statements. And I can show you which forms to use for filing.”

“Yes, please.” Martin takes the stacks of papers from Sarah one after another, piling them on his own desk.

“There’s more where that came from”, Tim says with a grin. “And as soon as you found something good, you have to actually investigate.” He pretends to retch onto the keyboard in front of him.

Sasha rolls her eyes again. Probably not a rare sight then.

Sarah walks him through their usual work process, shows him where to find the right forms to fill in, where to put the statements not for their area of expertise. He has some filing program on his computer he has never worked with, but he can figure it out quickly enough, finds the statement categories, manages to forget them again, but he gets through. Yes, he can do this, it isn’t that hard. A little deadly if he believes Sasha, but he’s not so sure about that, yet.

“The real ones”, Tim explains with a tat too much emphasis on “real”, “those go to the real boxes. The fake ones get what they deserve.” He rips one apart. “Death.”

“But…” Martin holds up his stack while Sarah comes back with another armful of unidentified statements from one of the tables. “How do I know which ones are real?”

“Well, if you read one and you get the creeps really badly and I mean it. Really badly. You read one and you can’t shake off the feeling like you just read something that didn’t belong to you, so you want nothing more than to forget it. That statement is probably real.” He hesitates for a moment before he continues: “Or the statement giver is a really good writer.”

“Thanks?”

Not helpful, but he can work with that. The statement he’s currently reading is not very well written, but he guesses that was to be expected if you meet just about anyone, give them pen and paper, and tell them to just write down what they saw.

Tim, who clearly saw him struggling with figuring out what to do, pipes up again: “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it after a while. Took me a few weeks to even find a real one. There aren’t that many around even if we have an entire forest’s worth of paper here.”

Martin puts the statement down, a little more determent than before. It goes to the “fake” corner. “Why aren’t there more of us then? I mean we’re just four, and if I can believe what Sasha says, there aren’t normally that many more around? Six was it?”

Tim just shrugs. “Why would anybody want to work here, really? We all have made weird choices to get here, in the middle of where-the-fuck-are-we.”

“Yeah.” He is after everything supposed to have studied parapsychology, which doesn’t give him much leverage on this. Besides, Tim is right, the centre is located on the outskirts of nowhere. The closest humans around live in the small Scottish village Martin has found a flat in. It’s the kind of place where you’re still “the new one” three generations in, and gossip gets around quicker than you can walk. Oh, it’s lovely, really. Beautiful. Streets flanked by houses with pretty flower gardens, a beautiful café right next to a flower shop. A church on a hill to the east that looks like it’s from right out of a fairy tale. As far as Martin is informed, the village is a tourist hotspot in spring and summer. Not enough for it to need tall hotels, but enough for some private owned cottages just outside the village scattered behind the farms. And whoever didn’t get any of those, just stays over at the next bigger city, which is not actually that far, but it takes about half an hour with the bus, and taking public transport kind of cuts the whole cottage aesthetic short. It is, said the brochure Martin had read before he had moved here, the perfect place for newlyweds to spend their honeymoon. Also a good place for hiking, just by the way, but less known.

The research centre is not close enough to the village to destroy its atmosphere, it takes Martin a drive of ten minutes to reach it from his newly rented flat at the edge of the village. Still, it is a weird spot. Beautiful, really. But maybe better suited for a spa, or maybe some more cabins for people to rent and spend their holidays in.

He doesn’t have enough time to dwell on it. Sarah has more statements for him, about ghost sightings, and cloud formations that looked vaguely like bad omens. He finds that most of the work isn’t so different from working for the magazine. More than half of the stories there were lies as well.

♣

It takes Martin the better part of the day to get through an impressive stack of statements. Most of which are very clearly false. None of them give him the creeps the way Tim described it, but quite a lot are incomprehensible anyway. They sound like someone too drunk to think straight had decided to write a fantasy novel of roughly six pages. With alien abductions, secret cults, zombies, and all the good stuff. The half that (in grammar, spelling, and sometimes even narrative) makes sense, are blatant conspiracy theories about secret governmental testing tubes, military strategies, and toxins in the water that screw with the human ability to see ghosts. He helps Tim with some research, runs with him to the library, gets another tour of the filing system, and sends a request for translation help to the linguistics department, who send him an answer fairly quickly redirecting him to the department “Translation”, and explain in great detail that linguists don’t speak a bunch of languages. The answer mail even _sounds_ exhausted, so Martin answers with quick thanks and a bunch of apologies.

He has his break with Sarah, who only works until noon and leaves after handing in a list of statements she takes with her to work on at home. Sasha checks the numbers on them, then approves and Sarah sees them all goodbye.

Martin hasn’t really worked out what kind of hours he’s allowed to have, and he feels like being new here and immediately leaving after only half a day of work leaves the wrong impression. Instead he stays as long as Sasha and Tim, brings them tea whenever he gets a cup for himself (Tim takes his with milk and sugar, Sasha only with milk), and then, when they both start to pack up their things, Martin decides that this statement he’s currently reading, is going to be the last one. It’s fake, anyway, he’s not even sure if “Every time I cook rice it’s suddenly too much rice!” isn’t just the way rice works. So the fake stack receives yet another statement.

“Martin?” Sasha says. She was checking something on her computer the last tine Martin had looked up, but now she is all set to go.

“Yes?”

“Tim and I” – Tim waves from behind her – “we’re going out for a drink. Would you like to join us?”

Martin takes a look at his watch for a second. It’s a few minutes to five. He doesn’t really have anything else planned for today, except for going back to his new flat and finish unpacking all the boxes still left all around the rooms, and it’s not like he knows anybody else around here. And Martin is a people person, as far as he knows he likes working with Tim and Sasha (and Sarah of course).

“Yes”, he says after a moment. “That’d be nice. Just give me a second to gather my things.

Sasha just nods, while Tim uses the opportunity to lift up his phone dramatically and says: “One second, time’s up, let’s go!”

He lets him pack up, of course. It’s easy to talk to Tim, he talks a lot, has quick jokes half of which are actually funny, and he doesn’t take himself too seriously. It’s an easy kind of dynamic he can slip into. Even when they get to the pub (the only one in the village Martin lives in from now on) in two separate cars because Martin and Sasha came in their own cars, Tim finds him again immediately, and slings one arm around his shoulders, while his other ropes Sasha in. It is rather hard to navigate like that, but Tim manages, Martin doesn’t complain. He seems to know what he’s doing. And just like that, seated in a corner of a surprisingly well filled pub, Martin finds himself sit across from Sasha. Tim insisted on ordering them something to celebrate Martin’s new job.

“So, Martin”, Sasha says when Tim gets back with drinks for the three of them. “You said you moved here from London?”

He nods, takes a sip from his drink. “Yes, I did. Lived there for… oh my, roughly seven years, I guess.”

“And now, you’re here.” Tim holds his beer up. “Cheers to that.”

“Cheers.”

But Sasha only shakes her head at that. “How do you like it here? It’s a change from a big city to a tiny village like this one.”

“Yes, yeah, I suppose it is. But it’s not a bad change, not yet at least. London is big, and hectic, and if we’re being honest, also very expensive for no reason at all.”

“That’s the city life for you”, Tim says. “But now, you’re in good hands.”

“I suppose so.” Again, Martin takes a sip. “I like it here, it’s quiet. And much more beautiful than the pictures I found.”

“They do that for some reason.”

“What about you two? Do you live here, too?”

“Tim does.” Sasha pats him on the shoulder, while Tim just makes a peace sign. “I live a little further. That’s why I sometimes pick him up from home.”

“But work isn’t that far, I like walking, it gets me out of my head.” He shrugs. “There aren’t actually that many of us Leitner workers, who live in the villages around. It’s… it’s a little weird. I mean as weird as it gets when you work for an organisation that hunts down ghosts, right?”

Martin smiles. He is… not quite sure if he’s supposed to laugh at that or if Tim means anything else by it.

“I guess there are a lot more ghost sightings around with Leitner’s centre this close.”

This time, Tim and Sasha exchange a look that makes Martin second guess himself. As far as he knows, people are far more likely to see ghosts and vampires when there are people around willingly listen to them.

“Or… maybe not?”

Tim shrugs again. “We don’t have that many statements from the area around here. Mostly just the local cryptids, not quite legends, not like… folklore creatures. Those go to-“

“The folklore department.” Martin nods.

“Pretty much, yeah. But around here? The things we get from around here are just gossip. Just… weird people. Like that creep Elias that sometimes just drops in from nowhere with his even weirder husband.” He shivers violently.

Sasha pulls a disgusted face. “Elias Lukas-Bouchard. He sometimes drops by, annoys literally everyone around, then vanishes again for god knows how long. He and Leitner have a history.”

“I think…” Tim leans forward, just enough to indicate he’s about to whisper something secret, and Martin, ever curious, leans forward, too. “I think Leitner and Elias have a history. We know Elias and his husband”

“Peter Lukas by the way.”

“Thanks, Sasha. Yeah. Elias and Peter have a somewhat rocky relationship. There’s been three divorces.”

“Three?” Martin tries to keep his voice down as best he can, but three divorces and they seem to still be married? That’s a surprise.

Tim just nods with the most conspicuous grin Martin has ever seen. “So what if – I’m not saying that’s what happened, but what if Jurgen Leitner and Elias Bouchard had an affair.” He punctuates his theory with a nod, then leans back to take another sip.

“That’s just what Tim thinks, okay?” Sasha leans forward, too, but she doesn’t lower her voice. “I think, Elias has his hands in something supernatural. And that’s why he sometimes drops by and annoys all of us.”

“Okay?” Martin doesn’t even know who this Elias person is supposed to be, but he appears to be a well discussed character around here.

“No, no, no, Sash, you’re doing this all wrong.” Tim leans forward again, not bothering to whisper anymore. “Elias and his husband, okay? They have some kind of huge mansion around somewhere. They have money, Elias sometimes just drops by on himself and always makes a point of visiting the big boss, this all points to some kind of drama setup.”

“That’s exactly what I was just saying.” Sasha gestures with her hands while talking and Martin ends up leaning back again, all while understanding both of them perfectly fine. “Nobody knows where that ominous mansion is. There are some ruins further behind the research centre, but you can’t stay there. The only people I’ve seen there where children daring each other to go down old stairs into some empty basement. It’s quiet there, and”, she stops for a second, the word on her lips, but she can barely speak it, “it’s _lonely_ there. And if that’s not clearly pointing to some supernatural… something. Then I don’t know what does.”

The silence that follows her words has a weight that Martin can’t stand for long. It suffocates him, reminds him of unopened boxes, of an empty flat waiting for its only occupant. For a too long moment, he fears he’s the only one here, that Sasha and Tim will get up, still wrapped in silence, and leave him here at the table, all alone. They don’t, of course they don’t.

“Well”, Martin says into the silence, breaking it apart, “I never heard this kind of gossip in London, that’s sure.”

And just like that, the conversation shifts again. The weight of the silence from before leaves after a while completely. Martin talks a little more about his former job, about people trying to lure unsuspecting ghost reporters into some kind of prank. When he mentions him helping out in one episode of Ghost Hunt UK, Sasha and Tim are all over him with more questions. They’re both fans, and they both know the host, Melanie King, in person. Apparently, she sometimes drops by for a chat. Tim, again, has a theory on why she likes to visit him and Sasha so much, but Sasha shushes him. Melanie has a girlfriend she brings along most of the times, but they haven’t met her yet.

“She should make an extra special episode with the local ghosts around here”, Tim says with renewed vigour.

Martin laughs at that. “I thought there were no ghosts here?”

“Oh there are, there are, but I guess they’re just…” Tim takes a while, mulling the words over. “Rare? I don’t know. Weirder? Like… you wouldn’t call the Prentiss girl a ghost, right?”

Sasha shakes her head and pushes her glasses higher up, just for them to slip back down again. “Jane Prentiss, she is… was… from around here. Then, about two years ago, she disappeared. Just like that. But sometimes people swear they saw her wander through the streets, except that whatever they saw is not Jane anymore. It’s… something else.”

“A ghost?” Martin finds himself saying.

“Not quite. She’s not see-through, and she doesn’t float, none of that. She is… we don’t really have a description, just what people say.”

“Gossip”, Tim supplies, and Sasha nods.

“So, she’s what? A zombie?”

“We… don’t know.” At that Sasha nods again. “It’s like her body started decaying, but it kind of stopped in the middle. And now she walks around again.”

“Oh.” Okay. That is… concerning. Martin tries to remind himself he doesn’t believe in ghosts. He had worked at a ghost hunting magazine for seven years without ever encountering a single real ghost. He just sorted his way through more fake ghost stories he had ever thought were possible of making up. And now he’s sitting in a pub after more ghost related work listening to his co-workers talking about possible ghost-like things on the streets.

“But! There’s also the Grey Lady!” Tim says the same moment Martin asks; “Any other ghosts to know about?”, but before either of them manages to detangle their words from each other, Sasha speaks up again.

“A rare ghost occurrence. The Grey Lady just… appears for a night or two, never longer. She doesn’t really do anything, just wanders the streets, sometimes scares people by… simply being there, really. Sometimes, she leaves the city towards the Tonner cottage, but nobody really knows if that’s really where she goes. Really, I have never seen her, Tim hasn’t either. There’s just gossip. And I’m willing to listen to people talk about Jane Prentiss disappearing and reappearing, even in a horribly maimed body, but a ghost like that? I don’t know. Prentiss seems to do something at least. Granted, it’s attacking people in the woods, but that Grey Lady? There’s nothing beyond the Tonner cottage she could want.”

Martin takes another sip. He’s still nursing his first drink, while Tim has already ordered a second one for him and Sasha. A randomly appearing ghost is closer to his understanding of the supernatural, than an apparently hostile girl that ran away into the woods, probably only looking like a corpse because she has been living out there for god knows how long.

“Maybe she died there? And she wants to revisit the place of her death?”

“Hmm”, Sasha hums. She props her head up with one hand, her cheek resting in her palm. “I don’t think so. There are no sightings of her that are older than three years. But Daisy – she’s the only daughter the Tonners had, well she still owns the cottage. And Jon’s been living there for… well, I guess since he moved here, really.”

“Oh? O-okay, yes.” Martin drinks a mouthful of beer before he can apologise. He meant it half as a joke, but if you work for Leitner, it seems, you take everything ghost related a notch too serious.

“Or”, Tim pipes up, a sudden glint in his eyes, “maybe Martin is onto something here. Maybe, now, hear me out, maybe Jon killed her.”

Sasha bursts into laughter so hard she chokes on her drink. Coughing and laughing at the same time, she leans forward, buries her face in her arms, her shoulders heaving with laughter. Martin’s cheeks grow hot from his blush.

“That’s… I… I didn’t… Not what… Tim, I don’t think…”

Tim just pats Sasha’s back. “Nailed it, Martin. Jon killed her. Best theory I’ve heard so far.”

Martin’s sure that by now his entire face is burning red with embarrassment. Tim’s grin just grows wider when Sasha resurfaces from her arms. She takes her glasses off, still laughing.

“Maybe… or maybe…” She has to take deep breaths between words. “Hold on… maybe that’s how he gets his flowers to grow like that. He uses the bodies as fertilizer.”

“Ha!” Tim pats her on her back.

“This is getting a bit dark, isn’t it?” Martin mumbles into his glass.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but…” Sasha wipes her eyes with one hand, still chuckling. Her glasses lie on the table in front of her, while she presses her palms against her face. “It’s just… the mental image of Jonathan Sims of all people trying to murder some random passer-by. That’s just, it doesn’t fit.”

“You have to understand, Martin.” From his sitting position, Tim holds out a hand at about his current shoulder height. “Jon is about this tall. And fits into the clothes of a ten-years-old. He is a stick. I’m pretty sure I can pick him up with one hand. But, like all small things are, he is full of rage. That’s just how things work. If you’re small, you’re always mad because you’re small. He has a stare…” Tim nods, his grin wide enough for Martin to question if what he’s saying is actually true. “Well, if you ever have the unfortunate fate of receiving one of Jon’s death stares, well then, it was nice to have known you.”

Martin’s blush is still hot on his cheeks, but he manages to wrangle his stuttering down. “But if he can stare me to death that easily, why is it impossible for him to kill someone with something else than his eyes?”

He’s aware that the conversation has shifted to something properly weird, and talking about someone he doesn’t even know makes him squirm a little. But he is somehow defending Jon here. In a weird, twisted kind of murder-y way.

“Because Jon is…” Tim wrings his hands without making a motion Martin can identify as something comprehensible, like pointing. Instead he says: “The contrary of a murderer. You have a sore throat? Visit Jon and he’s got some tea for you that makes you feel better. Your home smells like wet socks? Well, socks to be you”, he winks, “but guess what. Knock, knock, hey Jon, fancy seeing you here, do you have any flowers for me that smell good and also look pretty? Yes? Thanks! That’s Jon.”

“Right…”

Sasha shoves Tim’s shoulder without even looking at him. “Besides all that, Jon is a teacher at the elementary school. The only one, who gets his death stares, are the Brown twins when they try to pull another prank.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just raises both brows. He’s not sure what to say to that, but silence seems to be just enough to convince Sasha and Tim to move forward. The topic changes, never really leaves the supernatural completely, but at least they’re not discussing murder anymore. Before, Martin didn’t go out with his co-workers all that often. Many of them had other side projects of their own and so did Martin occasionally. Now, he thinks he could get used to this. Tim and Sasha are, even if they don’t get away from the supernatural often, pleasant company, and Martin finds he’s enjoying himself here. Only a small part of him, squashed back for the time being to make sure he can’t ruin his own happiness for now, only that small part whispers cruel half-truths. It asks him, if he is good enough for this kind of company? If he deserves this? If this is even real or if they’re just humouring him, just being nice for the sake of office peace.

The small part gets stuffed further back when Tim asks for his phone number to add him to his and Sasha’s workplace group chat, and he gets added even before they leave the pub. It’s not that hard to believe they genuinely like him. As they part, it’s only seven in the evening but it’s still Thursday, he offers to drive Tim home, and he accepts with a grin and a pat on Martin’s shoulder.

This is… nice. Moving here, accepting this job, it was a good decision. A good change. And a good chance.

♣

Martin’s good mood stays until he steps through the door into his empty flat. The lights flicker to life hesitantly, the door falls into the lock, and Martin stands for a long moment just there. He’s not waiting for something to happen but coming home to an empty flat after a long day around people isn’t really his thing. His new flat is better than his old London flat in all regards. It’s far more spacious, he has more than two rooms, and pets are allowed. And all that for far less money than he had to pay for rent before. Even with the bills for his mom’s nursing home he can pay his rent with his new job easily. For a while, he’s still on his savings until his first pay check arrives, but he can manage.

For now, his top priority should be to unpack all his stuff. Boxes still pile up on the floor and on his kitchen counter. He arrived here yesterday, but all he did so far was pushing the sparse furniture around until it looked passable. He still needs to buy himself a new desk for the extra room he has deemed his new office. A creative space maybe, somewhere to write his poetry, somewhere to pick up drawing again. And who knows? Maybe one day, this can be a home not only in name, but also in feelings. Tomorrow is a new day. And there will be more new days in the future. More evenings spend with his co-workers. Maybe even a real statement at work.

It’s a nice thought, but the lonely emptiness of his flat stretches out before him, holds onto him, clings to his clothes like fog on a cold night. He’s wrung out by the weight of nothingness.

Martin sets his bag down on the knee-high table in the living room. Tomorrow, he’ll be at work a little later. He has a scheduled meeting with Jurgen Leitner, his new high up boss, at eleven, so he has time to unpack his boxes tomorrow morning. Maybe he’s in a better mood then. He’s probably just exhausted. Moving, starting a new job, meeting new people, it takes energy. Tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep he’ll be ready to tackle all those damn boxes.

Especially since he has to go grocery shopping tomorrow after work. Cooking out of boxes, that’s how you unpack all things very slowly. Just live out of boxes and sort things when you’re done using them. Martin giggles to himself. Bad tactic, that’ll take ages.

His phone battery is after this day nearly dead, so he digs out his charger, and plugs his phone in. Now, when he’s already at it, digging through his stuff, he can very well get a head start on Future Martin. Unpacking will make the flat feel more at home, anyway. He’s not really motivated, but he rolls up his sleeves, stretches, and gets to work.

He’s… slow.

The space his flat offers is unused, empty. He can barely fill the living room and the adjoined kitchen with his presence for it to feel like it belongs to him. The boxes cluttering up the floor carry nothing of him, they are just brown cardboard boxes. He cuts them open, slashes their bodies with a knife not sharp enough to cut skin. They’re filled with pots, pans, cups, and plates. The violet floral pattern on the chipped plates is faded. Barely there anymore, all colour used up over time.

Martin finds, he has a lot of ideas for his poetry. They mostly circle back to wide, empty spaces, and he isn’t sure if he wants to deal with those right now. Instead, he shoves the old plates into a cupboard right above the sink. The cups of the same set follow. He misses one. A quick search turns up empty, none of the other kitchen boxes hold the missing cup. Martin hadn’t even noticed before. One was lost, one was left behind, forgotten, the rest can go on without the lost part.

“It was a long day”, he says to nobody but himself. “I should maybe…” A quick look to the open box, half unpacked, waiting for him to continue. His shoulders sack down, a nervous sigh escapes him.

“I’m making some tea. And tomorrow… tomorrow I’ll finish this, and I’ll go grocery shopping, and… I can bake a cake and introduce myself to my neighbours over the weekend. And bring some cake back to work on Monday.”

Martin goes on to dig out a notepad and his pencils to write a shopping list for tomorrow. He needs quite a lot, he isn’t that well stocked yet, has only some cereals, milk, eggs, some ready-made dishes he had bought yesterday evening after arriving and running to the store quickly. Nothing is really in order yet, but that has time. Martin has time. He will unpack tomorrow, maybe settle down in the weeks to come. And while still half dreaming about the future, Martin turns again to the box with his office supplies to fish out his tape. He rips off the shopping list and the next sheet underneath. On the second sheet he writes in big, bold letters: “Everything will be okay :)”. Then he tapes the sheet on the kitchen wall right next to the stove. It’s a little crooked, but Martin nods nonetheless.

It's his promise to the future. Everything will be okay.


	2. How to convince yourself ghosts aren’t real … after seeing some

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I call this: 7.000 words of Martin Blackwood encountering supernatural stuff and dismissing it Just Because

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: child neglect, because of Martin's mother, if you want to skip that just start reading at the first ♣

Martin regrets his decision to unpack this morning instantly. He didn’t forget that it was Friday, rather pushed it to the very back of his head for Future Martin to deal with. Well, now it’s Future Martin’s time, and he thinks Past Martin was not a team player.

Just getting up, having breakfast, and brushing teeth takes him longer than he likes to admit. It’s pushing nine by the time he finally stops pacing back and forth among his closed boxes. He has to leave in less than two hours, and he still hasn’t done the one thing that makes him this anxious: Calling his mother.

Or rather: Calling the nursing home. He doesn’t get to talk to her that often anymore, not with him moving up here.

It’s not as if he talked to her all that often before. He went to visit her often. Now, with his new job and the move in progress, he had taken to call on Friday mornings. The nurses there know him well enough that by now they have a small report ready in case his mom doesn’t want to talk to him. More often than not, it’s them telling him how much his mom enjoyed whatever activities they had this week, and Martin pretending he’s not already wrung out by the rejection of a simple call.

His phone lies on his kitchen counter next to a cup of fresh tea. And Martin stares at it for a long moment.

What could he possibly tell her if she’s in good enough spirits to talk to him? That he’s doing well so far? That he misses her? What does she even want to hear from him? He’s still paying her bills, the nursing home is a good choice, with nice staff, Martin knows half of the nurses by first names. They pick up his calls, they keep him informed, sometimes he even chats with them about their lives and how things are going for them. They always tell him they’ll call him back as soon as his mom wants to talk to him. They have yet to call, it’s always Martin who reaches out.

The nursing home’s phone number is the latest and most dialled number Martin has. His finger hovers over the call button for a heartbeat.

What if he just… doesn’t call?

It wouldn’t really matter, would it? He isn’t even sure if his mother listens to the nurses telling her he called. Who is there to notice he stopped checking in? Who is there to check back on him? Who even is left? He’s the one last cup here. Lost and forgotten in a world too big to find him again. Left behind. So very, very lonely.

Martin has only his mother, no siblings, no father to share a family with. No spouse either. And finding someone that wants to put up with him of all people can be somewhat difficult. He’s clingy, he knows that. He sees it in the way he presses the call button to reach out again, to check in on the last part of family he has left.

He clings to this. He clings to the forgotten touches his mother had denied him. He clings to the memory of a beach with both his parents at his side. It’s not real. Never was. A postcard, a scene from a movie, a wish. But Martin holds on, reaches out again, desperately pleads his case like he did as a child.

It’s a nurse that picks up.

“Mr. Blackwood.” Martin recognises the voice. Josephine is the nurse’s name. She takes his calls more often than anybody else, she’s on phone duty on Friday mornings.

“Good… good morning.”

“You’re calling to talk to your mother?” There’s a rustling noise, presumably as she gets up and moves around the small room that’s the back office. Martin has been in there a total of three times. When he visited his mother and she… refused to see him, he sometimes helped the nurses carry some chairs or boxes, whatever they needed. It made him feel better about driving over, even if he didn’t get to talk to his mother.

“Yes, please, if that is… possible.” Martin hears his own voice without recognising it. There lies something raw beneath, something small that cries and reaches out, expecting a touch, a warm hand that soothes the burning in his heart.

“Just a moment.”

And so Martin waits. His empty flat that’s full of closed boxes stretches out around him. He’s small in this moment, barely there. Maybe he’s the only real ghost he can ever meet.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Blackwood, but I’m afraid your mother… is unavailable for the time being.”

She even sounds sorry. Careful. Martin nods even though she can’t see him.

“That’s alright, I guess. What is… I mean, is… is she okay? How is she doing there?”

“Oh, she’s well, don’t worry about that.” Her voice conveys her smile just as well as her discomfort when telling him he couldn’t talk to his mother. She judges her. Martin knows that much. The nurses don’t really understand why he keeps calling. He can’t blame them, really.

For a few blissful minutes, Josephine talks to him about the home and the upcoming activities. And Martin asks after her, as well. How were her holidays? Is her husband doing well? How are the children? Pleasantries that mean a lot to him. A soothing balm for an ache he can’t seem to get rid of. He’s clingy again.

“I hope you have a good day, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Yes, yeah, you too. I hope you, too, have a good day.”

When Martin hangs up, he’s wrung out. His low energy drained completely. But he’s not crying, not quite. There’s still a chance for his mother to call him back Sunday. There’s always a chance.

♣

When Martin gets to work it’s barely half past ten. He didn’t have any energy left to stay home, all alone, unpacking his boxes, do any other chores except for the most necessary parts; cleaning up his breakfast and charging his phone. There are just as many people around as there were yesterday, the hall bustling with energy. He’s not sure what he thinks of the scouts. They still look like adventurers to him, with dark clothes, soil-streaked, dirty jackets and trousers. Some of them look remarkably cleaner than others, some are coated in spiderwebs, and from some of them seems to come a strong smell of blood, or spoiled meat. He can’t pinpoint the smell, it spills from multiple groups somewhere around, but he tries not to pull a face.

He gets through to Rosie’s desk without stopping. Neither Sasha, nor Tim are around, which comes as no surprise as they are probably back upstairs in the office already.

“Hello Mr. Blackwood.” Rosie smiles at him. “I see you haven’t been eaten yet.”

And Martin isn’t sure if that’s a joke, or if he should get used to being congratulated on staying alive around here. He might not look like all the well-dressed researchers out here that talk to the scouts, collecting the statements they bring, but he most certainly doesn’t look like any kind of adventurer either. He is tall, that much is true, but he’s also really wide, is soft where adventurers aren’t. Martin knows he’s a bit chubby, he knows he has always been a bit too chubby. Always on the wrong side of big for people. He isn’t cute in a small round way, rather tall and wide. But he gives warm hugs and people latch onto him whenever they need warmth. So, he’s by no means an adventurer.

Martin’s glad about that. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be a scout, to be out there, to meet… ghosts, those things out there… whatever they’re supposed to be. They seem to scare Sasha, and so far Sasha seemed a very sensible woman to him. He does not envy the scouts.

“Yeah… yes… uhm. I’m still alive as you can see.” He rubs one hand over the back of his neck and grabs the strap of his bag with the other.

She nods at him, her smile still present. “Can I help you with something?”

“Yes, I… yes. I… have a meeting? An appointment with Mr. Leitner.”

“Of course.” She scrunches her nose up as if unsure. “He is, I believe, currently in a different meeting. But you can wait in the foyer.”

Martin nods, waits for any kind of follow up, any instruction. But Rosie doesn’t give anything else. Instead, he puts one palm on the desk, just to ground himself a little; he hasn’t noticed until now that his hands are shaking.

“Erm… Excuse me…” Why does he sound like he’s desperate? Why does he sound so breathless? “I… I don’t really… uhm… Where’s the office? Mr. Leitner’s… Where’s Mr. Leitner’s office?”

Due to the distance between here and London, his job interview had been more of a job video conference. He didn’t complain back then, and it’s far from him to complain now, he has the job, has things to do, just doesn’t know where to go.

Rosie nods at that, her smile never leaves her. She seems to attribute all his nervousness and his shaking to the meeting with Leitner. So she doesn’t say anything, just smiles encouragingly and nods.

“The office is up on the highest floor. There are some other offices upstairs as well, so you don’t need any special access to just reach the top floor. However, there is another reception desk there, where you have to get a new access code for Mr. Leitner’s personal office. Just tell them of your meeting and they’ll know what to do.” Rosie hesitates for a moment, thinking about anything she might have missed, but then she nods one last time. “Good luck, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Martin.”

“Hmm?”

“Martin, my… yeah… I’m… Ma-Martin.”

“Good luck then, Martin.”

“Yes, yeah, I… thank you…”

He shuffles away a little awkwardly but manages to keep his smile plastered on his lips.

When Martin gets into the lift, he’s not alone there. He shares the small space with two scouts, which he only recognises as such because they are rather gruff looking, and they might have hard edges, but all in all they look far less like glass and cold steel than many researchers in the lobby do. They’re aged stones and settled wood.

Martin does not enjoy this lift ride. The two scouts, a woman and a man, shoot him quick looks. Between them, they carry something that was probably once a bag, but is now cloth tied together at various ends and held by safety pins. He can just make out the former white of paper sheets that’s now coloured yellow from the sun where they hadn’t been protected. There are also smutches all over the bag. Dirt maybe, in a sickening brown. He nods to the scouts – politely. They give him a once over that makes Martin’s anxiety spike (they do look like they could and would kill him if they decide he’s a threat).

They’re all silent until the lift announces the third research floor and the doors slide open. There, the scouts get off, and Martin really hopes he doesn’t have to run into them again, when he comes back here from his meeting. Through the open lift doors, he tries to catch a glimpse of Sasha, Tim or even Sarah, but the doors slide close again before he sees anything. Now, alone in the lift, Martin lets out an exhausted sigh.

The button for the top floor blinks cheerily.

The higher the lift climbs, the more restless Martin gets. He feels… wrong somehow. Before, with the two scouts, he had the feeling of becoming the sole point of focus for the entire building around him. Not in a claustrophobic way, but in the same way prey must feel when something far bigger, something dangerous fixates on it, smelling fear and blood mixing, trailing his way, betraying his hideout. Now, his unease shifts. Martin clears his throat. He stands very, very still, trying not to bring attention to him, which is of course ridiculous, there’s nothing around, nothing that could concentrate on him, there’s absolutely… nobody.

He is the only one.

And for the briefest second, the moment before the lift gives a little ding and the doors slide open, he knows with a certainty he has never felt before that he is, in fact, the only person in the entire building. If he were to take the lift back down to… what? Ask Rosie to explain the way to him again? He knows with the certainty of someone staring death into the eyes, that he will be alone. Going back down there will not bring anything, there will not be any soul left.

Then the doors open, and Martin feels himself moving, leaving the lift, stepping out. And he is no longer alone. Someone moves past him, brushing his right hand and arm. They’re too fast for him to see, or maybe he just reacts too slowly. A cold damp feeling stays, like a coat worn outside in the rain, like fog far off in the distance on its way closer and closer, searching. Hunting.

Martin turns around, but the lift doors close, and the lift starts its way back down. His mouth is dry, a shiver runs down his spine. Again he turns, this time looking around the room, searching for an anchor, for something to tell him that he’s not crazy. He cannot be alone here, he’s not the only one left. _People cannot just leave me, I’m not lost._

It’s only when he finds the secretaries at a nearby desk, he manages to take a deep breath. There are two secretaries there. Two other humans. Right. He just took the lift with two scouts, not even five minutes ago. He’s not the only one here.

The man and the woman behind the desk discuss something in hushed voices, some papers between them. Martin takes another even deeper breath, grounding himself.

“Don’t worry”, he mumbles. “Don’t worry, it’s all going to be okay.”

He’s just anxious. He doesn’t like Fridays, it’s stressful, he has just moved, just started a new job, and he’s about to have his very first meeting with his new boss. Of course he’s a little out of it. What else did he expect?

After another deep breath, he finally moves forward to the desk on the right-hand side. The secretaries have not noticed him yet, still leaning over some forms. The man looks up for a moment, then looks down again before his head snaps back up to Martin, just now realising that he’s there. He straightens up, adjusts his tie and jacket, and nods Martin closer. As he steps up to the desk, the woman acknowledges him, but goes back to her spreadsheet immediately. The man just waits for Martin to say something, as if he isn’t sure he’s real enough to do that.

Again, Martin puts one palm on the desk. This time, he’s very much aware of how much his hands shake. The other hand grabs the strap of his bag.

“I… I uhm…” He clears his throat. “I am Martin. Martin Blackwood. I… I started working here, you know? Yesterday… heh… busy, busy days.” He smiles, his voice coming out a little higher than usually. “I have an… a…. I have a… meeting, yes… yes, with Mr. Leitner. At eleven. Uhm… Rosie… from downstairs, yes… she told me… to… to ask for an access…? An access code? To… hmm, Mr. Leitner’s office? But! But I know he’s… he’s in a meeting right now! So… I can… uhm. It’s fine, I can just wait, wait here…”

He’s rambling, he knows he’s rambling, but he can’t stop himself. Either he keeps focussed on standing still, trying to keep his hands from shaking, or he tries to focus on stopping his rambling. Then again, talking helps somehow. It takes the edge off of the situation. Everything feels more real.

The man behind the desk nods. He gestures for Martin to follow him along the desk (it’s much larger than Rosie’s downstairs).

“Mr. Leitner had a… surprise guest. Let’s call him that.” The man’s voice is smooth, but it only barely hides an edge. Like he had been thrown off by something that was not Martin, and is now trying to get back to his normal tone. It’s not quite working, Martin can still hear the trembling underneath. The man puts one hand over his heart as if to check for his own heartbeat, then takes a look at Martin and smiles. His eyes clear up, they have a nice brown shade to them. But they seemed foggy. Only just clearing as he looks at Martin; the knowledge that there are other people around, that you can reach out, grounds them both in this room.

“A… business partner came by.” He doesn’t need to tell Martin any of that, but the more he talks the clearer his voice becomes. “So… Martin Blackwood was your name?”

The man checks something on a computer screen when Martin nods.

“Okay, you will need access to the foyer. This will just take one second.”

A printer stutters to life. It’s a sleek modern model, but it still shudders and coughs, like the printer, too, had forgotten that the outside world existed and somehow got used to being all on its own, all alone. Electricity brings it back. After a moment of angry printer noises, it spits out a sheet of paper. The man takes it, folds it once, twice, then writes M. Blackwood on it and hands it over to Martin. It has a barcode on the right edge.

“Just scan it”, the man says, “it grants you access to the foyer. Not to the library. Leitner’s private library is, well, private. It’s also not quite… safe there.”

Martin is not sure if that was a genuine warning or a joke. It seems an ongoing theme around here. If you work for Leitner, nobody really knows if you’re joking or not.

“Thank you, yes, uhm, thank you.” Martin fidgets with the paper. “He is still in a meeting, right? Uhm… should I knock? Or should I....?”

“Oh, no, he’s not.”

“He’s… uhm… he’s not?” Martin throws a glance over his shoulders. In his back, there are windows, letting in the sunlight of the day. To the left, more offices stretch on. On the right, a corridor leads off into the distance; he can’t see to its end, as there is a sharp corner right at the beginning.

“Yes, I’m sorry.” The man makes a motion like he’s chasing his thoughts with his fingers. “He had a business partner in. If you can call Peter Lukas a… partner. He can be… a surprise sometimes, you never know when he comes in and leaves again. But he’s not here any longer, he just left. Mr. Leitner will be available for your meeting.”

Martin just nods. Peter Lukas. Wasn’t that one of the names Tim and Sasha used before? Elias’ husband? If he’s around, maybe Elias is, too. Well, it seems he has some gossip for Tim now.

The rest of his way (down the corridor, through a door opening only with his access code) is surprisingly normal. He doesn’t know what else he expected, but he still breathes a sigh of relieve when he enters a curiosities cabinet of a waiting room. It’s held in wooden tones instead of the clean glass and steel that characterises the rest of the building. Two doors lie on opposite sides of each other, one of which is the door to the library, to which Martin has no access.

The library doors seem to be straining in their frames, barely holding onto the hinges. Not in a way of someone trying to break into it, but as if something is pushing from inside the library against the doors, trying to break free. They are bulging, stretching in ways wood doesn’t stretch. And Martin isn’t sure he wants to know what happens if anybody opens them.

He shakes his head again. This is fine. Nothing to worry about. Just old wooden doors.

The foyer is… worse. It’s smaller than he had anticipated, but a collection of artefacts is exhibited behind glass boxes. Martin guesses these pieces were deemed safe or at least safe enough to be moved here from storage. Or maybe Jurgen Leitner is just an obsessive collector, who doesn’t care for his or his interns’ safety. But that would be crazy. Nobody would work for an institution that kills the employees off like flies. Leitner is probably just showing off.

And so Martin very pointedly ignores the sofa apparently made of meat with teeth on its pillows, or the dark patch of shadow in one corner, surrounded by safety glass. Those glass boxes around the darkness and the sofa and the other things don’t help him feel safe here. What makes him most uncomfortable is a door at the window wall. It makes no sense. The door is wooden and pale yellow and also enclosed in a class box, in a way that suggests the door can theoretically be opened, but whoever steps through cannot enter the room. It looks suspiciously like the S8 door.

This right here, is a panopticon of murder curiosities.

Martin crosses the room as quickly as possible and finds himself in front of a pair of doors that look exactly like the library doors; except that these don’t strain against their frames in any direction. But he swears that when he knocks, he hears the echo coming from the library doors behind him.

A voice calls him in, dispelling the echo immediately. Martin jumps, pushes the door open in one go, and just stumbles into the office before all but slamming the door shut behind him.

His breathing is hard and ragged and he. Does. Not. Want. To be here for any longer than he absolutely has to.

The man that waits for him behind a too big wooden desk is small. He looks a bit crumpled, like his clothes had been washed while he was still wearing them and then had hung to dry under a lukewarm sun. Which is a weird kind of thought to have about someone as insanely rich as Jurgen Leitner. He owns all of this. He still looks like he crawled out of a vent.

Martin breathes deeply. With a bit more control over his senses and his doings, he straightens up and comes over to Leitner’s desk. His smile as pleasant as he can with his heart still hammering in his chest.

A bunch of bookshelves stand on the left-hand side, while the right wall and the wall behind Leitner are both window walls. Leitner still reigns the room, even while looking crumpled too small behind a too big desk, and with a somewhat far away look in his eyes. Just as Martin comes to stand in front of him, Leitner straightens up, looks a little taller, a little less crumpled, a lot more there.

“Mr. Leitner… uhm… yes, hello.”

“You must be”, Leitner stands up from his chair, reaches out for a handshake, “Martin Blackwood.”

“Yes, yes… That’s me, Martin Blackwood.”

When they shake hands, Martin has to keep himself from flinching back. Leitner’s hand is damp. Not from sweat, but rather in a cold, clammy kind of way, like a corpse lain in water – not for long enough for its skin to turn wax-like, but long enough for it to feel like sea foam and fog.

“Yes, thank you for coming, Mr. Blackwood.” Leitner points to the chairs in front of his desk. There are two and they both look disgustingly expensive with big cushions in a deep crimson. However, one of them is surprisingly worn. The wood of it is older, not quite like it could break under a touch, but rather like it had been forgotten, lost, and left behind.

Martin decides to sit in the other chair. For some reason, Leitner sighs at his choice, obviously glad he doesn’t have to face the other chair anymore.

“So, Mr. Blackwood”, he repeats, “you have been working here for, oh my, one day.”

“Yes, I… yes.” He keeps his hands and his bag in his lap.

“It seems too soon to ask you how you like it here, but for first impressions it’s always good to have a fresh memory. So: How do you like it here?”

Leitner sounds cheerful, not washed out anymore. His cheeks have a healthier shine to them. So, Martin smiles.

“It’s good. I’m… I’m looking forward to working here.”

Leitner nods. “I’m glad to hear the trouble with your ID card doesn’t seem to bother you. I’m honestly not sure how this could have happened, the archives are a restricted area.”

“Uhm…”

“But don’t worry, just hand in your current ID and we will have this sorted in a few hours.”

“Thank you, yes, thank you.” Martin bites his tongue before he can apologise.

Leitner nods. “Now, to more pressing matters. I have to say, we do not employ many parapsychologists here, unfortunately. So I’m very glad to have found you.”

“Yes, uhm, I’m… I’m very glad to be here, too.”

“Then I hope, we can give you sufficient work. As I know, you’re in the S-department. For general apparitions and transformations. I’m counting on Ms. James to ease you into the work here.”

“Ye-yes, yes, she… she did.”

“Perfect! I have hopes that with your experience you might have an advantage on identifying real statements. We…” He sighs barely audible. “I have to admit there are a lot of fake sightings. Mainly due to people either falsely identifying something as a supernatural encounter, or people who”, he pulls a face at this thought, “actively try to sabotage our researches.”

Martin simply nods, waiting for Leitner to continue. Leitner folds his hands on his desk.

“Now, Mr. Blackwood some organisational issues have to be resolved.” He reaches for a sheet of paper and hands it over to Martin. It’s a timetable that has Monday to Sunday listed on it ready to be filled with times, and some bullet points.

“My assistants tell me you have yet to fill out your time schedule for next week. I assume you had a briefing on how to do that with Ms. James as well.”

“I did”, Martin lies.

“It’s not an issue for this week, you have only been here two days, but I expect your schedule for the next week together with the ones from the rest of your team. Please also talk to your superior about possible field days. It is your luck that I know of one field expedition Ms. James has planned in the coming month, so be aware of those hours.”

Martin nods. “I will.” It’s not a lie this time.

“You will also need to hand in a report from next week on. Regarding your research, your findings, and the statements you deemed false. The work from this week can be included in your next report for simplicities’ sake.”

“Thank you.”

“I would like to have another meeting with you, next week, same time, if that works for you. To give you some more time to get accustomed to the centre. Then we can discuss your report.”

Martin hesitates for a second before he nods.

“That will be all for today.” When Leitner stands up Martin hurries to follow.

“Thank… thank you.”

They shake hands again. As Leitner stands this time, he stands taller, the crumpled look, the hunched shoulders all gone by now. The cold dampness of corpse skin has vanished entirely.

“It was… thank you.”  
Leitner smiles like a much younger man, someone finding a pearl among stones washed on the shore. “I’m looking forward to your report and some… insight.”

And just like that, Martin is left to leave again. The door closes behind him, the library doors still strain against their frame, the palely yellow door is gone. Martin tries not to think about it. It doesn’t work half as well as it should. He has no explanations for the weird feeling of loneliness that crept around him on his way up.

As he gets into the lift to go back down his anxiety spikes for a moment. There’s something watching him. Not prying into him, not staring, but watching. This time the feeling is easy to ignore, and it vanishes as soon as Martin arrives at the third floor. When he leaves the lift on research floor 3, he can’t shake off the feeling that the stare wasn’t malicious, but rather curious.

Martin’s last bit of luck is used up when the stare eases off of his back, so it comes as no surprise that the scouts, he had his lift ride with, are still in the office when he steps in. The room hasn’t changed at all, through the glass wall filters light, stacks of statements in boxes and folders sit on tables, waiting to be sorted through. Tim and Sarah sit at their respective desks, while the two scouts spread out their statements over one of the still mostly free tables. Sasha sorts them into stacks to deposit them on other tables and boxes.

“Ah, Martin!” Tim calls from his desk. “The man, the myth, the mystery!”

“Uhm. He-hello there.” He gives a little wave to Sasha and the two scouts that looked up at Tim’s words. Sasha waves back, the other two just stare.

 _No abrupt movements,_ is the only thing his head comes up with. Trying (and failing) to move inconspicuously gets him an annoyed look from the scouts, but a quick conversation starter with Tim.

“You look like you saw a ghost.” He holds up his hand for a high five that Sarah gives him before Martin even realises what’s happening. He’s still trying to settle down from this… pretty much the entire day.

“Well…” Only the presence of the scouts in his back keeps Martin from collapsing on his chair. Every inch of his being screams at him not to show weakness.

“Don’t tell me you actually saw one?” Tim’s eyes gleam. “Oh this is great, tell me everything!”

Even Sarah looks up from her statements. She has two more on her “real” stack.

“It was not a ghost, Tim. I just had… uhm… an uneventful meeting with Leitner.”

“Oh god, don’t tell me he gave you his whole “professionalism” talk.” He sets quotation marks in the air.

Sarah swats at his hand. “I’m _pretty sure_ you’re the only one here, who ever had that talk, Tim.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault all the DDA guys are sticks in the mud.”

Martin looks from Tim to Sarah. “DDA?”

“Demons, Devils, and Angels, that’s just Tim’s nickname for the demonology department.”

“Not quite.” Tim pats Sarah’s shoulder. “It’s the name for the guys that focus on religious demonology. If someone comes up and tells me, they’re working on a case about an alb sitting on someone’s chest, eating their dreams, that’s just a regular demonology guy.”

“I think, I just figured out why Todd hates you.”

“Todd hates me because he knows I’m hotter than him.”

Martin dares to look back to the scouts that still keep Sasha occupied. They are stuffing a bunch of statements back into their not-quite-a-bag-anymore, while Sasha riffles through the ones they left on the table. One of them, the younger woman with less scars, looks up right in that moment. Their eyes meet before Martin hurriedly looks away.

_No. Quick. Movements._

She stares. Her stare is a physical weight on his back, judging what an easy catch he’d be, giving him time to jump up and run away, a glimpse of hope before claws tear into him. Is that what she waits for? Him jumping? Running away?

Martin stays very, very still. His breathing is shallow, barely audible. Then her stare shifts – he _feels_ it, the weight lifts, the urge to run away lessens – and Martin is left with Tim’s and Sarah’s discussion of someone named Todd he has yet to meet.

“But” – Tim brings his hand down to the desk, not with a loud bang, but Martin flinches anyway – “if Leitner didn’t give you the professionalism talk, what did he want? You’re not here long enough to fuck up enough for any punishment.”

“Oh… erm… no, it…” Martin clears his throat. He reaches for the unread statements on his desk, leftovers from yesterday. “He just… I actually don’t know? He welcomed me, and then… uhm… just asked if I had a tour around? And if I know how to put my… my time table together. Which I don’t, by the way, I have to ask Sasha for another… uhm explanation… but yes.” He shrugs. “He wants to discuss my report next week.”

“That’s Jurgen Leitner for you. He loves his reports. Not so much those about how much nonsense we had to shredder this week, but everything else.” Tim rips one statement and stuffs both halves in an overflowing bin next to his desk. “A collector of many things: reports, books, furniture, stories…”

 _People,_ Martin’s head adds instantly. “Yes, he seemed somewhat eccentric.”

“Eccentric barely covers it!” But before Tim can list more and more synonyms describing their boss’ odd tendencies, Sarah grabs Martin’s attention by holding out an empty time table. The same one as Leitner gave him.

“Here, if you want to, I can explain how to fill one in. It’s really easy.”

He takes it with one too many thanks and apologies. And Sarah is right, it is easy once he knows how to. Tim chimes in once or twice to tell him when he’s here and that he should put a free Monday in from time to time, it helps. For next week, though, Martin decides on office hours he’s used to from the magazine. When Sasha comes over with another box full of papers in coloured folders, he hands her the new time table for his future work schedule.

“Thank you.” And she shoves it into a drawer. “Now, only Tim’s is missing.”

Tim shoots her finger guns but doesn’t say anything.

“What did the scouts bring this time?” Sarah asks, disposing of another statement on the “fake” stack – the bin.

“More statements of course. Trevor found some more of his vampires, but that’s a discovery for the folklore department.” She shrugs. “He wrote a statement about how he killed them.”

“ _Killed_?” Martin’s eyes grow wide as dinner plates. There’s a statement just casually floating around about a man killing… something. Someone?

“He can hunt all he wants as long as he has a pass from Leitner. And he has one as long as he keeps bringing in statements.”

“Hunt? I thought… but isn’t… aren’t scouts…” Martin looks around, searching through the room for any curious ears that stuck around, but both scouts are gone.

“Aren’t they just… collectors? For… well… stories? They look a bit uhm… rough.”

“They are…” Sasha hesitates for a long moment. “Scouts can’t just sit down somewhere and hope for people to come to them. They go out actively searching for the supernatural. They hunt down people who know something, or think they know something. And sometimes they check things out themselves.”

“And kill people?” Martin waits for someone to start laughing, to scream “Gotcha!” and break the moment. Nothing happens.

“Not really, think of it as exorcising things.”

“I didn’t think this could get any weirder.”

Tim waves at him with some papers. “If you think that’s weird, wait until you find a real statement.”

“Speaking of statements…” Sasha rattles of some dates and names for the case Tim is currently working on and effectively shuts them all up for a while. Martin finishes his stack up, brings new ones over, works through those as well. For a while there’s nothing but fake supernatural encounters and making tea for the four of them. Sarah likes her tea without anything in it, so now the set is complete. But he doesn’t have enough time to make more than one cup for her, as she leaves a few minutes to three to pick up her daughter from school. Again, she takes statements with her home, and Martin wonders if he should maybe follow her example and excuse himself for the rest of the day.

He is not sure if he’s up for more statements about peeping noises at night, and more translation requests because he knows neither enough German, nor French to get through them alone. The beginnings of a headache are crawling up his neck, slowly, but steadily. The blunt black tea they have here can’t wash it away – he really needs to bring some of his own tea next week. He knows from experience that once the headache hits, he won’t be rid of it for the next few days. Not like he has anything planned except for some baking and unpacking more boxes.

In the end, Martin stays. He stays until Tim and Sasha start to pack up again. Next week, he won’t make his shifts depend on when his co-workers go home. He has always lived better with a set schedule, gets more things done.

The stack of false statements grew over the day, he has only one statement left. This one is one of the longest he has seen so far, seems to be about ten to twelve pages. He will have to work through it on Monday, but for now that’s Future Martin’s problem and Present Martin is done with his shift for today.

“Martin?” Tim leans over his desk just as Martin checks his phone, his jacket already on and his bag slung over his shoulder. “Everything alright?”

Martin stifles a yawn. “Yes, Tim. But I think I’ll be off for today, too.”

“Good call, Leitner isn’t worth your sanity.” He pats Martin on the upper arm when he gets up and shoulders his bag.

“Tim?” Sasha calls from the corridor. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“My life saver!” He opens his arms but doesn’t hug her.

During their lift ride, Martin expects another moment of being watched, waits for the second the entire building fixates on him. It’s almost worse when it doesn’t come. Martin leaves the lift frowning at his own paranoia, telling himself over and over again that there’s nobody waiting for him in the hall, that Tim and Sasha are here, that ghosts aren’t real.

He’s so deep in his own thoughts that he barely notices the woman waiting in the hall.

She sits on one of the benches, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone. Her hair is chopped short, washed out blue dye not yet grown out entirely. On the back of her dark blue hoodie floats a blob ghost with a speech bubble. Afterwards, Martin blames the lightning inside and his growing headache for why it took him a minute to recognise Melanie King.

Melanie looks up when she hears them cross the hall and her face splits into the widest grin Martin has ever seen on her face.

“Well, well, well, well…” She stuffs her phone into her pocket before she jumps off of the bench. “Who do we have here?”

“Melanie!” Sasha moves to hug her as soon as she is in arms reach.

“King!” Tim holds his hand up for a high five and Melanie gives it all while hugging Sasha.

“Stoker.”

“What are you doing here? Don’t you have a new episode planned next week?”

When Sasha lets go of her, Melanie finally notices Martin as well. She holds up a hand in greeting, nods, but moves on quickly. It’s not like they are close acquaintances from just working together on one of her episodes. He’s glad she even acknowledged him, knowing that she has the tendency to just gloss over people she doesn’t like.

“Oh, we’re just visiting for this weekend. Not that long. Some things came up, Georgie wanted to deal with them in person. I just came along to see you guys.”

“So the mysterious”, Tim wiggles his fingers, “Georgie is here, too, but we’re still not getting to meet her?”

“I’m afraid she’s dealing with someone more important at the moment. You have to spend your time with me and me alone. And I feel like a visit at the local pub could do you some good after a long week.” Before any of them can answer, she shifts slightly to face Martin. “You’re invited, too, of course. First round’s on me!”

“Ah… no, sorry, I… I really can’t.” Martin shakes his head. “I have plans for tonight.” Grocery plans, but plans nonetheless.

“Your loss.”

“No, no, wait.” Tim slings an arm around Martin’s shoulders – Martin is still not used to someone being tall enough to do that without standing on tiptoes. “We can’t just leave you behind, Martin. Who knows what could happen to you? The streets are dangerous out there!”

“Less so if we remove Tim from them.”

Tim’s look of utter betrayal has Melanie stick her tongue out.

“Next time then”, she says to Martin. “If you work here, there’s a decent chance we’ll meet again.”

“Yes, of course”, he nods as best he can with Tim’s arm still draped over his neck. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The salute Melanie gives him has Tim extract himself from him as well.

“Well then, see you Monday.”

Sasha hugs him before Melanie herds her and Tim out the door and, unsurprisingly, towards Sasha’s car. Martin takes a moment to wave at them when they leave. It was a long day, longer even than yesterday it feels. Now, outside, his headache lessens a bit. Maybe it won’t stick around for days on end. Maybe things will work out and the world will stop being so incredible confusing.

♣

It’s on his drive home from the store when he notices the strange figures on the sidewalk. His groceries all fit on the passenger’s seat next to him. They’re stuffed into an old bag with a broken zipper he keeps in his car for moments when he forgets to bring a bag along. It’s an ugly thing in a faded red with darker patches on the bottom where milk and yoghurt stained the cloth irreversibly, but it does the trick. Especially with only half the groceries he actually needs. This morning, he forgot the shopping list he wrote last night on his kitchen counter.

It’s fine. He has enough to survive the weekend. He can just run back to the store on Monday afternoon. Surely, he didn’t forget that much.

In just a minute, he’s home. It’s as he is about to make a left turn that he notices the figures. They stand on the sidewalk a few metres ahead of him, facing each other – or at least that’s what Martin suspects. One of them has their back turned to him, flailing wildly with their arms, while the other stands across from them. Martin sees their profile in parts but can’t put the pieces together to build a face.

He shouldn’t stare. It’s rude and creepy, and Martin is really not trying to spy on random passers-by… but he… stares anyway. There’s something… something is wrong here.

The street is entirely empty if not for him in his car and the two figures. By now, darkness has claimed the world, the figures are barely more than silhouettes in the night. Darker shadows against the blackness around them. The one with their back turned to Martin has a better outline around their frame.

There’s something… wrong. Martin grips the steering wheel harder.

The second one moves forward, bearing their hands. They’re holding something – a lot of something. It spills over from their hands to the sideway, floods their feet, a writhing shimmering mass of silver movement. The other one takes a step towards them. The silver mass to their feet moves away, shivering in a wave of dread that reaches even Martin. His car groans around him.

The figure takes another step closer, pointing to something in the distance. When the second one wipes their head around to see, something flies off of them. Not hair, but a wave of movement in a sickening silver that curls and slithers, too uncoordinated to have one mind for the entire mass.

The figures are now walking, down the street, further away, but they’re still arguing. Both moving their arms, pointing at each other, shaking their heads. Even though they never touch, their movements are sharp, clearly angled towards each other.

Martin breathes in, tasting mould in the air.

He’s… he shouldn’t just watch people arguing. That’s creepy, that’s really, really creepy. This is not his fight, he… he doesn’t even know what he just saw.

A shake of his head, an even deeper breath, has him waking up from… staring. He lessens his death grip on the steering wheel, his cramping fingers scream in relieve and agony both as blood rushes back into them. The car is dead silent around him, died somewhen between noticing the figures and now. It jumps back to life when he turns the keys, disrupting the night around with sudden life. Sudden light.

Martin takes deep, levelled breaths. His head swims, not quite foggy, but too slow to properly understand what just happened. The headache is gone, as dead as his car just a second before. No trace of the figures is left behind, and Martin very pointedly ignores anything that could still move when he makes his turn.

It was a long day. It was a far too long day to deal with any of this now. Whatever “any of this” is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: poetry, a weekend full of burned cake, and Jon's not so great people skills
> 
> Find me on Tumblr under clubsheartsspades


	3. How to survive bad days … and friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's not so great people skills, a weekend full of burned cake, and poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: description of bad headaches, and a statement, if you want to skip that, just stop reading at the second ♣ and resume at the third

It’s already eleven when Georgie walks into his kitchen like she belongs there. Jon doesn’t mind, not really, Georgie and Melanie are his guests at the moment and he enjoys their company. He still puts up his best disapproving frown as Georgie pours herself some cereals and milk into a bowl. It doesn’t work, of course. It’s not supposed to.

Even while sitting on the counter separating the kitchen and the open living room from each other, Georgie has to look down at him. Why does he only know tall people?

“Good morning!” She sets her bowl down and gets in one of the chairs across from Jon.

“It’s eleven.”

“That’s still morning.”

Well, he can hardly argue with that. “Where’s Melanie?”

With her spoon, Georgie just gestures towards the adjunct guest room. “Still asleep. She always drinks too much when Tim’s involved. I guess she’ll stay in for a little longer.”

“And by little you mean…”

“A lot.”

Jon makes a disapproving noise that neither of them acknowledge. Instead, a drawn-out silence falls over them. It’s a good silence, grown from long years of knowing each other, from a friendship that Jon values.

“How was your morning?” Georgie means the question as it is. She doesn’t want to make useless small talk to ease them into a conversation. If she asks a question, she wants to hear the answer to it. One more thing that he appreciates about their friendship.

“As expected. I wanted to move some of the plants from their winter shelter”, he nods to the hallway that’s full of pots with green vines, first flower blossoms, and still damp soil from the morning watering, “but it’s not quite right, yet. The nights are still too cold, the sun not warm enough, the usual complaints.”

“The only complaints plants are capable of.”

Jon tries really hard not to roll his eyes. It doesn’t work.

“Jon Sims, the plant whisperer.” She grins at him before shoving a spoonful of cereals in her mouth.

“I can’t _talk_ to plants. I just _know._ ”

“Kind of the same thing if you ask me.”

This time, Jon doesn’t fight his eye roll. Just because he _knows_ when his plants need water, or when he needs to check the soil, or when the nights start to cool down too much for the fragile life he watches over so carefully. Just because he knows doesn’t mean he talks to plants. There were once rumours about him, when he just moved here, back when Daisy still lived with him. Never about them being more than friends (an irrational fear Jon felt back then) but for some reason people focussed on him. On the collection of scars dotting his dark skin, on his burned hand, on his hair with grey and brown mixing in his braid. Eventually, as people realised he was, contrary to what Mary Willison said, not a wanted criminal and most certainly not the anti-christ (and after a bunch of blatant lies Daisy told them about a tragic accident in which he had gotten his scars), everyone backed off a little. Life slowed down enough for Jon to actually meet the villagers, to get to know them.

He knows those people now. So, he has to protect them as best as he can. (Even Mary Willison, who sometimes throws salt at him to test if he disintegrates or sends requests to Leitner’s centre accusing him of witchcraft.)

After a moment in which Georgie does nothing but munching on her breakfast, Jon slides off of the counter to pick out two of his mismatched cups.

“On a more serious note; how did your… meeting go?” He asks while pouring them both a cup of the herbal tea mix Georgie prefers.

“Meeting.” She shakes her head. “Not quite what I’d call it, but whatever. Now, it didn’t go as badly as it could have.”

Jon sets both cups on the counter, then heaves himself back up. “Was she of any help?”

Nodding, Georgie takes her cup. “She didn’t give me much to work with, rather tried to convert me to worship the Corruption. We all know Jane’s agenda.”

A shiver runs from Jon’s shoulders down his spine. He _knows_ – it’s a deep ache in his bones, a pulling in his mind that spreads out, all around him, filtering the air for information, feeding him every little detail he can grasp.

“Spreading love.”

“Spreading worms.”

He sighs into his tea cup. “It’s the same to her.”

“I don’t like this.” She pulls a disgusted face and Jon can’t keep himself from smirking.

“I thought this was your favourite tea.”

It takes a puzzled second of silence before Georgie laughs. Her voice fills the kitchen with warmth, spreads out without pressing in on him.

“I ran right into that one.” Her smile softens her entire face.

Sometimes, on mornings like this for example, it’s easy to understand why some of his friends in university had clapped him on the back, congratulating him on dating Georgie. She is beautiful, with her black hair falling over her shoulders like that, her smile reaching up to her eyes, crinkling at the edges, cutting deeper shadows into brown skin. He is even luckier to still have her as a friend – especially after everything that happened.

“But seriously, Jon, there’s more to this. And I don’t like it.”

“You and me both, Georgie. But look at me”, he spreads both arms, presenting himself for a second before he continues: “I can tell where she is if I concentrate on actually finding her. And then? What am I supposed to do when I find her? Tell her mean things until she runs home crying?”

“Isn’t that exactly what teachers do?”

He straightens up. “I’ll have you know, that Mrs. Anderson thinks I’m a perfectly _kind_ person.”

“Hmm, because you bribe her with better grades for her children.”

“My grading system is”

“The most interesting part of your day.” Georgie grins. She holds out her already empty tea cup, wordlessly asking for more. Jon glares at her.

“Anyway, as I was saying, Jane might not be the best source of information, but when she realised that I was not there to change patrons”, she takes her cup from Jon, “thanks; she showed me something very interesting.”

Jon settles back on his counter even though the chair next to Georgie is a perfectly reasonable option.

“Something interesting that I don’t already know about?”

“I would love to make a joke about this, but it’s really not funny.” She hesitates for a moment, shuffling her cup from one hand to another, her eyes stay on Jon’s. “Peter Lukas is back. And, well… he brought Elias with him.”

Jon stares. Reflexively he reaches out with his mind, follows streets outside his cottage, searching for a glimpse of wrongness, of twisted reality that fits Elias’ powers. The world spreads out beneath him, he can’t _see_ anything, his human eyes still on Georgie’s face, but he stretches himself further and further until he finds the limits of his powers, finds the static that fizzles beyond his reach. Jon searches with a purpose, ignores all that is not tinted with the singing vibrations of the Eye. As he snaps back to himself he has to close an extra pair of eyes his body supplied to process the flow of information from all around. Or rather the lack thereof. He settles back into his mind, slowly, keeping his concentration, but without any more insight.

“He’s hiding. I can’t find him.”

Georgie nods, far less disappointed than he is. “He probably has Peter hide them in the Lonely, just to keep out of your reach. There is a direct connection to his ship a little further out of town. That’s what Jane showed me.”

“Elias…” Jon presses his flat palms over his eyes (the human pair, there are no others left). “I don’t like having Jane here, but Elias is worse.”

Georgie reaches for him and ends up patting his knee. “If he’s still hiding from you, he doesn’t want you to know he’s here just yet. Maybe that’s your advantage. Besides” She draws her hand back and makes a movement like she’s throwing trash away. “You do know you’re far more powerful than him, right? You are the Archivist after all.”

“Yes, Georgie, I am aware. I’m just not sure if Elias is.”

“Well, that’s his own fault. And that’s all I know from Jane. A connection to the Lonely, and Elias talking to her. Something’s coming. One of Elias’ half-baked plans maybe… or something bigger, I don’t know. And if you don’t know either, then, well, all we can do is wait.”

“Right”, Jon sighs, “wait.”

“Don’t make that face. If Elias tries something dumb, just – oh I don’t know, block his sight or something? Can you do that?”

Jon blinks slowly. “I cannot.”

“Tough luck. Buy a spray can and fill it with water, that’s what I do when the Admiral tries to climb on the kitchen counter again.” She leans forward, her chin resting in her palm. “Maybe you need someone with a spray can, too.”

“Why would I?”

Georgie just gestures to his general surroundings. There’s not much around. The tea pot right next to him, a bowl with fruits, some flowers, the remains of Georgie’s breakfast…

“I don’t see how…” He turns left and right to figure out what she means. Then his shoulders drop. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.” She grins, but Jon doesn’t climb down. He just frowns at her.

“Speaking of the most important part of our lives; how is the Admiral?”

“Oh, he’s great. I left him with Helen and Michael. He enjoys the doors.”

“I can imagine.” He takes a sip from his own tea. It’s too bitter for his taste, but to get the sugar he needs to get up and walk all the way to the cupboard.

“Before I forget it, Oliver dropped by last week. I think he’s worried about Elias, too.”

“Did he bring you a manual on how to become a full avatar of the End?”

It’s Georgie’s turn to roll her eyes. “He did not. As far as I know he just came from his Wednesday Lunch with Annabelle.”

“Okay, now you’re just namedropping.”

“What can I say?” She leans back in her chair, grinning up at him. “Had I known back in university that my best friend would drag me with him into a supernatural underground world, I’d probably still befriended you.”

Jon is about to answer, the sarcasm already on his tongue, but then stops before he can say anything. His eyes go unfocussed for a second, his sight blurs, as knowledge makes itself a place in his head, telling him that Melanie got up and is on her way to the door. Just a second later, Melanie stumbles from the guest room. She’s still in sweatpants and one of Georgie’s What the Ghost shirts, her hair mushed up. For all that Melanie is always ready to stand against the next enemy she now looks soft and still very tired.

“Good morning.” Jon says before Georgie even realises her girlfriend is up.

“Marnm.” Melanie trots over to bury her face in the crook of Georgie’s neck.

“I take that as a greeting.” She moves only slightly to press a kiss into her hair, but Melanie doesn’t really answer, just wraps her arms around Georgie’s waist.

Jon vacates his place on the counter again to fetch Melanie another cup and fill it with the too-bitter-but-still-Georgie’s-favourite tea. He has a somewhat unstable friendship with Melanie, that relies on two factors:

Firstly, they both want Georgie to be happy and having your best friend and your girlfriend despise each other is not a good foundation for happiness. Secondly, Melanie likes Jon’s singing voice enough to ask him if he would consider singing at their wedding (she was drunk that evening and has yet to propose to Georgie, but he still agreed).

It took them a while to figure out their own personal balance. They still keep up some appearance, bicker, ignore each other, Jon never cuts his sarcasm off and Melanie snaps back at him, however, he has to confess that there is a decent chance – maybe – he considers Melanie an actual friend outside the whole “She’s dating my best friend I have to be nice…ish” situation. By now, they’ve moved from _I’ll hurt you_ to _If someone hurts you, I will hurt them back._

He realises too late that he could have gotten himself sugar while he made Melanie tea. too late now, he’s already on the other side of the counter, pushing the cup towards the chair Melanie claimed for herself. She has her head buried in her arms.

“That late?” Georgie’s rubbing one hand over her back.

Melanie’s answer is an unintelligible mumbling of sorts, muffled through her arms and the stone surface.

“Can you repeat that in English, love?” Georgie keeps her voice low.

“She said, the second whisky bottle was a mistake.” Jon didn’t really understand, he just knows what Melanie tries to say. He also knows that it’s a lie and they didn’t drink enough whisky to empty an entire bottle, but he keeps quiet.

Melanie flips him off.

“Well, that sounds like a great evening.” Georgie’s voice is still cheerful. “Jon, anything special for breakfast?”

“No beans”, comes from Melanie loud enough for everyone to understand.

“You already ate, Georgie. Just a minute ago, while we were talking?”

“I’m thinking eggs”, she says with a grin, “and I know you haven’t eaten yet.”

Jon opens his mouth to say something – he’s not sure what, he can’t really contradict her – but then just stands there, his hand raised, before he closes his mouth again, and, with one last glare, crosses the distance to his fridge.

“Eggs then.”

Georgie grins in victory. “Some toast, too. I know you have this great jam from the Simmons farm.”

A detail she only remembers because he had once made the mistake of introducing her to Mrs. Simmons when she brought him a glass of their self-made jam and honey in exchange for dried poppy seeds and some flowers for her wife. After a joke Mrs. Simmons made about falsely receiving a package that was addressed to Sims, but the dark tape all around it to keep it closed had covered up the last s – the post man, a well-known young man from the village that bought honey from the Simmons’ as well, had falsely assumed the package was for them –, after that Georgie took to mention the Simmons farm a lot more often than strictly necessary.

“I do.” Jon collects milk, eggs, bacon, some spices, and aforementioned jam from all around his kitchen. He also hands a glass of water to Melanie who empties it in one go.

“Don’t put cayenne pepper in the eggs.”

Jon has enough self-control not to look Melanie in the eyes while dumping enough chili in the pan to burn his own tongue off. Instead he puts the spices down on the counter in front of them.

“Just do it yourself when everything is done.”

Melanie nods, while Georgie says: “Much appreciated.”

He passes her the jam and some toasted bread as well before she can remind him again. Melanie pulls a face when she sees it’s another jar of dandelion jam.

“Tim and Sasha asked after you.”

“Me?” Distantly, Jon knows she’s talking to him, but he’s standing with his back to them while cooking the eggs and the bacon.

“No, your devastatingly handsome brother Son Jims, yes of course you.” She rolls her eyes, he doesn’t need to look over his shoulder to know.

“If his last name was Jims, he wouldn’t be my brother.”

“Shut up.” Melanie’s voice is muffled again as she buries her head in her arms. “This is too much _you_ too early in the morning.”

“It’s eleven.”

“In the morning.”

The conversation feels familiar, but Jon just hums along as Melanie tells him about Tim’s stupid idea to come over here at three in the morning, and Sasha’s – the only sober one it seems – insistence that next time Jon and Georgie absolutely have to come with them. The distinct smell of bacon and eggs fills the kitchen, mixing with the perfume like smell of flowers and freshly watered earth. It doesn’t really fit, not like it would in a novel, where the deeper meaning of flavour and emotions can be freely woven by the hand of someone trying very hard to allude to love, or life, or loss, through seemingly insignificant details. Here, however, there waits no poetry in smells or flavours or songs. Jon wrinkles his nose when he plates the breakfast, splits the bacon between Melanie and Georgie, but leaves none for himself.

“Thanks, you’re the best.” Georgie pats his shoulder.

“You say that because I made you food.”

He can’t really eat on the counter, so he drags another chair from the _perfectly fine table behind them_ next to Georgie’s, who digs into her second breakfast instead of answering.

“So”, Melanie says after a couple more glasses of water, “how did things go with Jane? Did you get what we came for?”

Georgie repeats her new findings again. This time, Jon doesn’t follow any of it, just lets his mind wander from here to there to nowhere special.

_Just hope Elias’ plans don’t involve another fire. Oh god if he tries to antagonise the Desolation people again, I swear I’ll find a way to sever his link to the Eye. Which reminds me, I have to keep an eye out for the Brown twins, they keep picking on Astrid Robinson. Also, I need to print out the letters for the upcoming museum trip. Wait was that a question? Uhm…?_

“What was that?” He tries to push his thoughts away, but abrupt changes have never been his speciality. So it comes to no surprise that he takes a moment to blink and sort himself through his half-eaten breakfast and then back to Melanie, who manages to look annoyed and triumphant at the same time.

“I said”, she repeats a little louder, “there’s someone new at Leitner’s research circus.”

Again, Jon has to take a moment before he answers. “Ah, yes, I know. He’s a big topic among all parents, as far as I know. Mrs. Anderson was asked quite a lot about him. She works there as well.”

“So? What do you think of him?”

Jon shrugs. “Nothing. I don’t think he has any connection to the entities, and none of the residential forces are of any particular danger.” He hesitates for a moment. “Well, except for… uhm… Jane.”

Yes, Jane would be ecstatic to seduce a lonely soul to the Corruption. And with Peter around, the Lonely has strengthened its hold on the wide empty fields, among trees; it opens right behind short walls that are easy to jump over.

“And the Eye.” With her fork she points to Jon. A piece of egg hanging dangerously off of the end. Georgie plucks Melanie’s fork from her hand and steals the egg on it. Melanie lets her with nothing more than a glare that carries no real annoyance, just fondness pulling at the corners of her lips.

“Yes, and me. But let me assure you that I have no interest in endangering anybody.”

“Except yourself”, Georgie says. “And don’t just apologise and say “anybody important”, Jon. You _are_ important.”

“I…” _I’m not._ He won’t say it. Not with Georgie staring at him with her death glare and Melanie still in close vicinity of a knife, so he just nods. “Alright then.” It’s enough for the moment.

“But seriously, Jon.” Melanie has her fork back, pointing again, this time without food. “That new guy… he looked so… familiar, but I can’t place him. Just watch out. Maybe he’s not supernatural, but there are dangerous people out there. Dangerous _humans._ I don’t want to get a ransom call from someone who kidnapped you.”

Next to her, Georgie nods.

_Thanks. That’s good to know. I’m glad I have you guys._ He swallows around every word he comes up with, wrangles them down again, with nothing left but empty words and a swelling fondness that he can’t express. Not like this. Not the way they deserve it.

Besides, if someone did kidnap him, they wouldn’t get to make a ransom call. Even with Daisy in London, there was a decent chance for her turning up and getting him out, all while swearing how stupid he was and how he should not do that again. And probably play the Archers in her car, just to annoy him.

He takes a deep breath. “I promise, I will keep an eye on him.”

“Or two?” Georgie asks. It’s a joke he knows, he has played along so many times that it’s second nature by now, so he opens another eye right underneath his cheekbone. It blinks for a moment, adjusting to the light, then fixates Georgie just like his human eyes do.

“Or three.”

♣

~~Over streets~~ Waiting alone  
There ~~stands~~ ~~only~~ solemnly stands (grows?)  
 ~~The~~ ~~A lost~~ ~~One~~ A lonely tree

Martin is in the middle of researching what kind of plant life grows around the village and if it has any symbolic meaning, when his phone rings.

It’s his mobile phone that’s currently plugged in in the kitchen, to charge and to alert him when the cake in his oven is done. His landline is all set and done, he just needs a new phone to actually use it. But the next electro store is about two towns over and Martin had all hands full with unpacking (which is now, on Sunday, still not done entirely), his new job, just moving in general, just getting adjusted to the new village. Next week, his life can finally slow down enough for him to get everything done that piled up. This weekend, he dedicates to baking cakes (plural because the first one he tried yesterday burned) and sharing some pieces with his neighbours to introduce himself and get to know who they are. In the meantime, he tries to capture his thoughts on the village in general. Poetry was always a way for him to express himself, even if he’s struggling a little with his current project.

Since he came home on Friday evening the figures on the street never left his head completely. They brought him an uneasy sleep from which he woke sweating and panting and seeing crawling maggots in every shadow. He even texted Sasha and Tim after a long moment of hesitation. Tim’s reaction was, unsurprisingly, an ecstatic keysmash. Sasha refined her theories on the Grey Lady, as she matched the (very limited) description Martin gave her.

So when Martin’s phone rings, there’s a decent chance for it to be Sasha. She told him, she has to check something and will call him back if she finds anything. He’s not going to be disappointed if it’s her.

Still, he picks up his phone without checking the number, just to make sure. Just so that he can take it.

It’s pathetic. He waits for his mother to call him back (it’s always Sunday, if she calls, if she wants something, she always calls on Sundays), knowing full well that she won’t. But maybe it’s Sasha. Maybe she can tell him more about mysterious figures talking in the streets after dark. (He didn’t tell them that his car died on him without him even realising, no word about the mouldy smell, he’s not sure if any of it wasn’t his imagination running wild.) If he’s lucky, she will have found something that takes long explanations and he has something to do for the rest of the day, something to occupy him.

“H-hello?”, he stammers when he takes the call.

There’s a heartbeat of silence. Then: “Mr. Blackwood?”

_Stupid! You use surnames on the phone! Right! Basic phone etiquette!_ “Ye-yes! Martin Blackwood here!”

Another second. The voice was female. He doesn’t recognise it, but maybe it’s –

“Ashton here, you talked to my son, Robert, before.”

“Yes! Right, Mrs. Ashton, yes, I spoke to your son.” _Oh._ Right, Ashton, his landlord. Martin’s stomach drops, his legs wobble just like his lower lip when he forces the words out. He keeps his voice steady, forces himself to smile all while the pressure builds up behind his eyes and his throat hurts after every syllable. “Is… is there a problem?”

“Ah, no, no, don’t worry. I’m calling because the plumber comes in next week to fix the pipe problem that…” She trails off before she laughs. “Well, I guess you haven’t been here for long enough to experience the problems the same way your neighbours have, but the point is; there is a problem with one of the main pipes in the cellar that needs fixing. Someone will come over on Wednesday, but that means you won’t have running water from ten to twelve.”

Martin nods. “Yes, thank you Mrs. Ashton, thanks for calling.”

“Of course, dear. Is there anything else? Robert told me there was an issue with the door?”

“Uhm…” It takes Martin a moment before he remembers that, yes, when he arrived here and came to pick up the key, it just wouldn’t unlock the door. “Ah, yes, ye-yes, there was, but it’s better now, it really was just the new key.”

He has to wiggle the key a little to get it in the lock, but it works.

“So that doesn’t need fixing? Perfect.”

“Uhm, no, it’s all good. Thank… thank you for calling.” It’s not a lie, he’s glad he now knows about the pipe issue, he just wasn’t expecting … her.

“Of course”, she repeats.

“Uhm, next… I mean…” He calculates when he gets home from work each day of the week but doesn’t come to a satisfying answer. “Next week, I… my phone number changes next week, and I... uhm… should I...”

“Ah, just call with your new number and leave your name if nobody picks up.”

“Yes, yeah, I… I’ll do that then.”

“Great.” Martin may not see her, but her voice even _sounds_ like she’s nodding. “If there’s anything else, just call again.”

He forces a smile into his voice. “Will do.”

“Then have a nice Sunday, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Yes, you… you, too. Goodbye.”

He hangs up, stares at his phone in his hands for a very long moment. _Trees,_ he thinks, _are perhaps not the right thing to show what I want to say._ Trees grow, they sprout, bloom, nurture. And all that Martin does is take and cling. Mistletoe that’s grown on others, draping itself over other branches that don’t belong to it. And then still – still – hung in homes. Parasites on trees, draining, dwindling, dying down.

Martin sits back down on his sofa, his poetry on the knee-high table in front of him. It hurts to bend down like this for too long, but his new office is still bare. No desk, no chairs, only boxes. Boxes, boxes, boxes.

_Fog coils,_ he writes down, _as I stand there. Glued together. By shaking hands. Dropping and misplacing. My pieces._

He smiles and it pulls at his lips, it hurts on his cheeks, it burns in his eyes. Things are going to get better. They have to. He came all the way out here – he didn’t run away. He didn’t. just needed a change, needed a chance.

Checking his phone brings him no clarity. Sasha just told him she has to consult the library on Monday. Tim texted in their work group about a statement from Jane Prentiss herself that was assigned to… Illusions? Was there an entire department just for illusions or just another one of Tim’s names? He asks if someone can fetch it for him on Monday. Martin is about to reply when he remembers he still has the ID problem, he forgot to hand it in on Friday. He forgot to ask _where_ to hand it in, too.

Great.

He sighs, drops his head into his hands. Great. But it’s okay. It’s not the end of the world, he can just hand it in Monday. It’s the first thing he’s going to do on Monday morning, right when he gets to work. The first thing!

Fog coils in his kitchen as Martin sits on his couch. The air is dry, filled with a hot bitterness that makes Martin recoil. This is… oh god his cake!

Martin jumps from his sofa, makes it in few steps to the kitchen and the disaster of a cake that’s probably burning already if the smoke that pours from his oven is anything to go by. Oven glove on one hand, dish towel in the other, he opens the oven to another smoke cloud. Heat radiates off of the now silent oven. He pulls the cake out, flailing wildly with his towel.

Why didn’t he hear the alarm he had his phone set to ring no no oh shit!

The cake is burned black with cracks all over, a nicely round piece of coal. Martin can’t do more than just stand there and stare at it. This was his second try already. And it went worse than his first one.

The smoke stings in his eyes and clings to his throat, forcing him to open all the windows in his flat. Tomorrow, he buys some baking mix. And then nothing can go wrong. He will just stand in front of the oven the entire time, not once moving away, rooted to the spot until his cake is perfect and he can finally introduce himself and even make some extra for work the next day. Yes. Yes, that’s a great plan!

Martin comes back into the kitchen, to his still disastrous cake. The smoke lingers here, its bitterness cuts through Martin’s nose as he breathes it in. He knows from experience that the smell will seep into his clothes and his hair. And smoke, something burning, is very easy to smell, people always pick up on it. Especially if they’re sensitive to strong smells and prone to headaches. Like Martin.

He massages his temples with both hands, but far off he can already feel the headache that’ll sting and cut through his head if he stays in this stench. But the windows are open, the flat is bigger than his London flat was, he can breathe, it’s fine. Not perfect, a little uncomfortable, but he just moves from his sofa in the middle of the room to the next window, his poetry quickly sprawls out on the floor and on the boxes around him.

This isn’t so bad.

♣

The next morning brings him a headache. It’s thunderclaps in the distance, lightning behind his eyes, flashes of pain after blinking. Martin doesn’t get a warning, no creeping, no prickling. He wakes up exhausted and in pain.

His alarm blares ill-intent on bruising his head from the inside out. He moves slowly – so very, very slowly – feels the air around him, unwilling to let him pass through, rubbing over his skin. Gravity pushes his head down. No matter the position, the pressure point is his head, balancing his entire existence on an ever-shifting needlepoint that burrows into Martin’s skull. Pushing his fingers into his hair does nothing except double and triple the pain, spreading from his fingertips and staying, not lessening even after he stops touching his head.

When he finally shuts off his alarms it does nothing to help. There’s light coming through the curtains that stings and burns. It’s soft, a hue of blue in the early morning, but it has his eyes rebel, sending no other information to his brain than Pain, Too Much, and NO. He wants to claw them out, to push his fingers through his skull and scoop them up until he stops hurting. Closing his eyes does so little it might as well be nothing.

Sitting up, now sitting up is another deal entirely. The world shifts around him – Martin doesn’t move, not an inch, it’s the world that moves, that tilts its angle, pushing him upwards. There is agony in every movement the world forces him to. He can breathe, that doesn’t hurt.

Tea. He has to drink something. He has to eat breakfast. He has to get to work. Painkillers first.

Martin makes it to the appropriate boxes in a stumbling mess of wild flailing, fumbling, and swearing. By the time he gets his hands on the too small box for his swimming head, he’s crying. His tears sooth the burning in his eyes, but they make his head split, make him cry harder.

But it’s okay. It’s all good. He’s used to it, he can deal with all of this. His day is going to be okay, and tomorrow his headache will have lessened and then on Wednesday he might even be free of it for another few weeks.

Martin swallows his pain killers with cold water. For a while – ten, fifteen, twenty minutes – he just waits for them to take effect. When they kick in, he actually manages to make himself some tea and forces some soft bread down without having to throw up afterwards. It’s going good so far.

The little sheet in the kitchen tells him that Everything is going to be okay, so he believes it. No questions asked.

Martin leaves his flat. He has things to do, places to be. He gets to work, he hands in his ID at Rosie’s desk, he makes it to their shared office, he greets Sasha, he greets Sarah, he greets Tim, he makes tea, he ignores the yellow door, he sits down at his desk, he makes small talk with the others, he promises Sasha to help her in the library later, he apologises a lot, he … the statement from Friday is still there.

It’s still so long, the writing small, scribbled. Martin’s head throbs.

“Martin?” And Tim’s voice, usually pleasant, easy to listen to, cracks his skull open with nothing more than his name.

“Yes Tim?” Martin smiles. The painkillers still work, he can even speak without slurring. His tongue sticks to the back of his mouth, but he’ll manage. He’ll manage.

“Are you… I mean, are you well? You don’t exactly look good.”

“Oh, it’s just a headache.” Martin waves his hand through the air. “It’ll pass, I guess I just have to drink some more tea.”

He doesn’t believe him. Martin might be a little out of it, but he can see the shadow of a doubt on Tim’s face.

“If you say so? If it gets any worse, you can go home, no problem, you know?”

Martin nods and – oh god that was a mistake no no no – keeps himself just barely from flinching. Pressure, hard and insistent, pushes against his head. There’s no burning, no piercing left, just the same steady pressure that pressed him down this morning. The world shifts around him, turns and circles, but Martin keeps his head down. There’s a statement. He can do his work at least.

The statement is easy to read. His first thought is actually _Oh wow, it’s comprehensible._ It starts out very small. So normal that Martin doesn’t notice anything wrong. His throbbing headache hurts him, but it’s manageable, a little distracting maybe, but not… like this.

_I need to know,_ the statement giver writes in a quick, scribbling hand that screams of the skittering nervousness of someone being watched. Someone looking over their shoulder over and over again, just to make sure they are alone. A shiver runs down Martin’s spine, the movement disturbing his otherwise still head.

_I need to know if I’m crazy. I hope that I’m not, but I can’t really know that. Right? I have the feeling that I should. I have the feeling that I should know. Know what? Everything, I guess. Just about everything. And I know that there’s something out there that can let me know everything I need. I need that camera back. But let me start at the beginning, that at least, I know very intimately: It was back in 2000 when I had just moved to London. The first of many mistakes yet to come. Rents in London are too high for no damn reason, as a student you can barely scrap by if you’re alone. Especially without any rich parents or anywhere else to live. So I guess it’s not that surprising that I took to… unorthodox living situations. I was an art history student with a lot of dreams about my future, I wanted to get to know artists, write articles about them, maybe even move among them as an insider. Someone, who knew about them, even outside their art; someone they could share their secrets with. I know what you’re thinking: “Oh, you just wanted blackmail material! To use the knowledge you gathered against them!” But you’re wrong. You’re wrong on so many levels. Why would I collect their secrets, all their inside jokes and petty gossip, just to share it then with everybody? You lose a secret if you share it with too many people, you can’t just shout it into the world. No. Secrets are a deeply personal matter. The secret itself is personal, but what’s even more important is that it’s a secret at all. Why do people keep secrets? Because they’re embarrassed, because what they did was illegal, because they’re afraid of judgment. And that says a lot about who a person is. I learnt that over many years of shared secrets. People like to talk to me, it seems. They like to tell me things, they enjoy it. And I enjoy being told things, finding things out. It’s a win-win situation, honestly. Or rather, it was. It was early on in 2000 when I met Charlie. I never found out her last name, but that wasn’t really important. She was an aspiring artist, still studying, but her head already full of dreams and plans for the future. Needless to say we got along well. Charlie was easy to talk to. She shared a lot of secrets, only half of which her own, but I took them in even if I didn’t know who they belonged to. That wasn’t important. Who was the Sebastian that was deeply in love with his professor? Who was the Rachel who had accidentally shot a wasp’s nests with firework and destroyed the neighbour’s shed? I would never meet those people, but I still knew their secrets. Charlie was also the one, who introduced me to squatting. As I said, rents in London are not reasonable at all. I don’t want to make this a big deal, so, yeah, I didn’t manage to keep my flat. In the summer of 2000 I was in dire need of a new home. And I needed it quickly. Charlie was a squatter in Hackney, living in trailers, tents, old busses, houses that were vacated. She took me and all my stuff with her, and you know what? It was the best decision I’ve ever made. The squatter community there was welcoming, lovely, perfect for my collection. You don’t live this closely with people without picking up on things they try to hide, things they manage to hide, and things that just won’t stay hidden._

Martin has to stop reading for a second. His head crying out as the last two words blur in front of his eyes. The words hold on still, grab him, force him to stare at them, he’s supposed to see. See more than the paper says, find all the nasty, little secrets that person had collected. Secrets not meant for his ears or eyes, but the idea stays a faint buzzing in his head. It hurts him to look away. His eyes watering, the last sentence still dancing in the periphery of his vision. He finds his tea cup empty at his side.

It’s such a stupid little detail to focus on, but he has the habit of fetching himself tea as soon as he runs out. Just in case. Now, he stays put. Tears streaming from his eyes, dripping onto the desk, just shy of the paper’s edge.

Nothing happened yet, nothing that could give him this strange, warped feeling that lies in his stomach, too heavy to ignore. Everything around him blurs, nothing is real, and nothing is important. Martin’s headache rebels against him, still, he never breaks his eyes away from the words. Letters warp the lines around them, shimmer, but Martin keeps on reading. He barely sees. Just understands.

And finally, after the statement giver tries over and over to map the entire place they’re staying, tries to understand what scratches and footprints in old houses mean, finally they find something. In an abandoned building, forgotten by humans and reclaimed by nature, they stumble upon a camera. It takes Martin by surprise how eager he is to find the secrets beyond the words.

_I held the camera like it was the world’s greatest treasure. And I was right to do so._

Martin nods at the words, his head scratching and hurting and bailing at the motion, begging him to stop. He doesn’t.

_On every picture I took, I found hidden secrets. Shapes in the background, moving only when nobody looked at them for a while. Every abandoned building had once housed people, it had held a family, many families even. And I saw them. They swarmed the pictures, showed me their lives through the lenses of an old polaroid camera. I found their secret stashes of books, cigarettes, more photos. Even now, years after the last one to know about these secrets passed away, I was able to uncover them. I rediscovered the long lost signs of life._

There is a circle drawn at the edge of the writing. Martin notices, but doesn’t understand. He sees blind in his reading, focussed on the discovery of knowledge thought lost, saved by the impossibility of moving shapes on pictures.

_People were somewhat… different._  
He doesn’t want to know. Martin doesn’t want to know. His head sobs, he cries tears of exhaustion, his headache worsens, all painkillers this world has to offer are not enough to tame the fire burning away the last thoughts he can grasp. He doesn’t want to know.

_The pictures moved around them as well. Just not as people, no shades that pointed to hidden entrances and loose floorboards. But in floating shapes that painted their pasts, revealing what even they didn’t know. Secrets that belonged to me alone; not to those whose story they were part of, but to me and me alone. Sometimes even thoughts, deep inner desires, the craving for love and acceptance even while wearing the cold detached mask they wanted others to see. I saw through it all. I knew. And it was exhilarating._

An especially painful stab in his head has Martin looking up for a moment. The others sit around their own research, Sarah shifting through her fake statements, Sasha and Tim exchanging notes, thoughts on something. He can’t hear them talking, not a word. Instead he looks back down, keeps reading. The tears make the words swim, but he still understands them. Especially now, as the statement giver begins to describe how they kept taking picture after picture, running out of film, but the camera kept working. Another couple circles are drawn on the sides, there are dots in their middles, small, a singular point of contact between pen and paper.

_There was only one thing I had never dared to take a picture of: Myself. But now, with all secrets, all stories, all knowledge laid bare before me, all the pain of people I knew so intimately engraved in my brain, I needed to see, who I was. There had to be something different about me, something more. Would I be surrounded by secrets of other people? Was there perhaps something about me I didn’t know yet? I just had to know._

_Don’t,_ Martin manages to think before his head groans under the exhaustion, _don’t try this._ But the statement giver does anyway. They have their friend Charlie take a picture of them, in front of the trailer they live in together. And then…

_I waited. Expecting the picture to shift and change after a while. And it did._

More circles around the writing, this time less round, but more of an oval, flattened, pressed together.

_There were no secrets on my picture. There were no surprising childhood memories I had managed to push too far back to remember them anymore. There was only me. But that wasn’t really me. There, were I was supposed to stand, stood a shadow, the absence of light in a human shape. All over the dark body grew big, unblinking eyes._

The circles on the paper, the ovals, have become stylised eyes at this point. The paper imitates the sclera too perfectly, it seems softer there. If Martin presses his thumb over one of the eyes, will it feel like skin? Like the soft white flesh of an actual eye? Will it close?

_I didn’t use the camera all that often after that. Every time I looked through, even without taking a picture, I saw what people hid behind smiles. I stared, unblinking, like the eyes that seemed to make up my whole being by this time. Then, well, the camera broke. I dropped it after trying to take a picture of some guy in the park. He just sat there, waiting for someone I assumed. My curiosity had grown insatiable over the few months I owned the camera and even the picture of myself was not enough to dispel the need to collect people’s stories and secrets. So, I lifted the camera up to take a picture. All I saw, was the man still sitting on the bench, but his limbs, his arms, legs, each finger even, they were coated in a silvery white material, not unlike silk. The strands of white tethered him to something. Something big, sitting in his back, throwing a large shade over him, the bench and the path in front. It was a spider. Big and hairy and with burning red eyes that moved independently from each other. I dropped the camera. The lenses cracked right in the middle. But I didn’t pick it back up, just stood frozen, staring up behind the man, were the spider had been. It wasn’t there anymore. I couldn’t see it without the camera._

_Run,_ Martin thinks, his own head racing with pain and adrenaline that’s not his own.

_And as the man on the bench jerked forward and turned to me, I ran. I don’t know if he picked up my camera. I just know that I left it there. I ran as far as I could, not even home, just away. I just ran and only stopped when I couldn’t breathe anymore. I didn’t know what that thing had been. And that was worse than actually seeing it. I didn’t know anything about it. Still don’t. I tried to google giant spiders that puppeteer humans, but nothing. Of course not. There are no legends from around here. I’m still in the middle of my research and if I find anything, I will send you something like a follow up or whatever I can find. I wouldn’t even write this, didn’t even want to come to your weird pop-up office for supernatural stories, if it wasn’t for the pictures. All pictures I took are all as they were, with shifting shapes revealing secrets. Except for one. The picture Charlie took of me changed over time. The eyes on my body close. At the beginning there must have been hundreds, big and small, all around me, floating right and left to my head. Now, with every day, another one closes. I only just now realised. And… I don’t like it. With every closing eye, I feel like something watches me more and more closely. I don’t know if I’m being followed, but I want to. I need to know. I need to know the same way I need the camera back. I can give you some of the pictures I took as proof of my story. People like you always need proof. As if my word isn’t enough. As if it’s not enough to just_ **know.**

The statement ends there. The stylised eyes drawn on the bottom and the sides stare up at Martin, they watch as he puts down the last page, pressing his screaming head into his palms. His eyes are still burning, his brain pushing against the inside of his skull, doing its best to make it explode from the inside. He can’t do this, not with his head like this, not when the pain drips down into his neck and shoulders, over his forehead even.

The statement waits patiently for his decision. He wants to file it as fake, he really wants to. But he knows by that deep wrongness emitting from every single word that it has to be true. Everything in this has to be real. If not, it’s probably Martin, who’s the crazy one. So he pushes it to the other side of his desk, onto the still empty space labelled “to research”. His hands are shaking. And it’s not because of his headache this time.

A cup is placed next to his empty one and Martin jerks up, snapping his head upwards that a tearing flash of pain cuts his scalp in half.

Tim stands there, next to his desk. The tears in Martin’s eyes make everything blurry.

“First time’s hard for everyone.” Tim picks up the empty cup, his smile soft on his lips. “Take a break, I can help Sasha in the library. You go and drink your tea.”

He’s about to decline, but there is still the pressure in his head, the feeling of watching eyes in his neck. His shoulders drop.  
“Thank you, Tim.” His voice is hoarse from silent tears.

“Any time.”

♣

Martin ends up taking more painkillers in the break room. He knows he shouldn’t, but there is no way he can get through his entire shift like this. He’s a mess, jumps in his chair when Sarah’s phone rings, shies away as she excuses herself to go and pick up her daughter from school, who apparently caught a stomach bug. Sasha and Tim tell him to go home exactly twice. The first time after they come back from the library, when he still sits in the break room, half asleep from the pain and his medication. He tells them, of course, he’s okay, he can make it through the day.

He doesn’t. The second time they ask him to go home, it’s around half past three. They are, unfortunately, right. He can’t make it, even though it’s just what? Another hour? Or maybe that’s the good part, right? He made it this far, he’s only missing one hour.

“I can drive you home”, Sasha says has he gets ready to leave.

“Thank you, but…” Uhm? He has a reason? Somewhere buried in his brain? “I can still drive, it’s not that bad.”

It is one hundred percent that bad. And sitting in the front seat of his car shows him that, yes, it is bad. But he’s used to it, he really is. He’s used to sitting his headaches out and this one isn’t even the worst he had. He can still walk around and even talk, he doesn’t have to throw up, can coordinate enough to make tea. Really, he’s technically fine.

He’s fine. That’s why he can definitely do everything he has on his list. Leaving work an hour early leaves him with enough time to buy the baking mix he needed yesterday. The small store is close enough to his flat that he could probably walk there, but he’s already in his car, he’s already driving, it’s useless to go home and then go back to buy some cake mix, really, he can just get everything done in one go. Even with his headache.

The good thing is, however, the feeling of being watched, lessens significantly as Martin makes his way through the aisles from fruits and vegetables to baking and cereals. Only the general watching of people around him stays. People in a small town actually greet you in the store, so Martin spends a good while just nodding, smiling politely, blinking his pain away.

In the baking aisle, he finds himself holding some trail mix before realising that – wait, that’s not what I want. Instead he leans forward, scrunching up his entire face, trying to read what the hell the too small signs underneath the products say.

“You look awful”, a voice says. Martin blinks, still concentrated on the words in front of him, his head helpfully replacing them with sentences or words from the statement. Did he start talking to himself?

“Huh?” Martin turns his head, slowly, but finds nobody there. More blinking to get his eyes to focus, before he lowers his gaze and finds someone standing next to him. It’s a man, he thinks, someone sharp, in a neat button down, and a soft leather jacket that might be a little too big on him and makes his already small frame seem even smaller. He has a leather bag slung over his shoulder and a shopping basket in his hand.

Martin doesn’t know what to do with him. What did he say again?

“I said”, the man repeats, “you look awful. Terrible, really. You should go home, not stumbling around here.”

“Excuse… me?” He manages after a moment. He frowns. That was probably not what he was supposed to say in this situation. Then again, he had never before been in this kind of… is this already a conversation?

The man shakes his head. “You should drink some…” He puts his basket down and starts rummaging through his bag for barely a second, before he takes out a cigarette case. There are no cigarettes in, but a couple of high tea bags for loose tea. He takes one out. “I suppose people call these potions.” With skilled movement he quickly ties the thinnest of threats around the top. “Well, regardless of technical terms, here’s some tea.”

He hands it over to Martin, who takes it, functioning on autopilot by now. Only his mouth is unable to form any words.

“Huh?”

The man picks his basket back up. “Six minutes should work just well.”

“Than-thank you.” Martin still holds the tea in his hand, not entirely sure what to do with it.

“You’re welcome.” He nods one last time. “See you around, Martin.”

He’s gone before Martin even registers that he’s moving away. So he stands there, in the middle of the baking aisle, holding a tea bag in one and trail mix in his other hand.

“What?”, he asks, but there’s nobody around anymore to answer his questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Martin finds out who his supermarket tea dealer is, the new Ghost Hunt UK episode comes out, and Elias thinks he's more important than he is


	4. How to say “Thanks for the tea ... but seriously I was afraid you gave me drugs"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias thinks he's more important than he is, the new Ghost Hunt UK episode comes out, and Martin finds out who his supermarket tea dealer is

The soft morning light that filters through the curtains of their bedroom window drowns the room in a light blue that makes everything in it seem ethereal. The world isn’t awake yet, not completely, still filled with morning fog and the night’s cold lingering on the fields.

The moment he wakes up, Peter immediately knows it’s a bad day.

It’s the day he first forgot their anniversary. Not the day of their anniversary, not even close. But the first time he forgot. The first time Elias asked him “Dear, do you remember our first wedding?” and he answered “Yes of course, how could I ever forget?” and Elias’ grin (he should have known by then, should have noticed!) was wide and outride evil when he asked: “Then you remember our wedding day?” And Peter did not. He forgot. Which makes today the anniversary of his first time forgetting their anniversary. Elias always does something special on this day. Something he knows Peter hates.

Elias still lies next to him, his mushed hair pressed flat to his head and face on one side, his hand curled around the blanket. It’s a rather rare sight. He makes a point of getting up before Peter even though, no, _because_ he knows Peter enjoys lonely mornings with no soul around and just his own thoughts to keep him company. Today, however, he sleeps through the morning, even as the blanket around him moves when Peter gets out of bed. The light catches his face in a rather inconveniencing way. He looks at peace, somewhat like a figure made of cold white glass reflecting the half-light of a not yet born day.

Peter is no poet. He never wanted to be one. Just sometimes, on days like this, he feels – and that alone is troublesome, isn’t it? He feels deeply content. The comforting warmth of a trusted home, filled with neither fog nor knowledge, but the intertwined lives of its inhabitants. And his contentment, his familiarity with their home, with the rooms he wanders, and his routine he follows, and _Elias_ , it forces him out. Seeking to wrap himself in fog and loneliness, to wash his feelings off of him again, to get accustomed to the dull ache when he wakes up in his compartments on the Tundra, unknown, unnoticed, alone. Just to come back after months, after weeks of monotone static, to come back and remember the home’s warmth, to satisfy Elias’ questions on where he went and what he saw, to remember the way Elias complains about his beard when he kisses him (it’s a lie he tells himself for his own pride’s sake, he could never forget). Yes, sometimes he sees figures in the fog, beckoning him home, and he mumbles flowery language he picked up from couples he separates, just to annoy Elias, just to see him roll his eyes and stifle a laugh in his sleeve.

He will have to leave for a while again. He can’t starve himself from his loneliness the same way Elias can’t starve himself from knowledge. But he has his library, has his employees to feed new books, stories, knowledge to his growing collection. All Peter has is an aching for loneliness, and a dull unremarkable pain when he leaves.

“Peter?”, comes from the bed just as he opens the door. Elias stirs underneath the covers, but Peter is out of the room before he can wake up entirely. His voice is rough from sleep, deep and slurred, but enthralling. Maybe that’s his compulsion he can’t control on slow mornings, maybe that’s just how he sounds to Peter’s ears. It has something of the sea. Reminds him of crashing waves and sea foam reaching up to his ship.

Peter finds his way easily through the empty mansion. Tall windows with greyish glass in them filter the soft blue out of the light. So he wanders corridors bathed in colourless light, bleaching all beauty from the rich wooden floors and high-hung paintings.

His staff knows better than to get in his way if it’s not absolutely necessary. Most of the time they avoid Elias, too. He had his way with some poor servant a few times, not only learning their names but also all their weaknesses, stories, and secrets.

They fit together, Peter thinks on his way into the dining room. Maybe to their anniversary this year (their real one, not today) he can find some poor victim, lure them into the Lonely, then spit them out on Elias’ doorstep for him to pull their story from their mind. It’s his version of treating him to dinner.

As he sits at the long table, he finds his and Elias’ breakfast already served. No other human face around him except old paintings – never family paintings, only single portraits. And for the next few hours there is only blessed silence and solitude around him. A lonely breakfast without any

“Good morning, Peter.” Elias is far less rumpled when he steps in. Still wearing his pyjamas instead of his fancy suits Peter paid for (for all of them. Every single one.) he leans against the door frame.

“Good morning, Elias.” In lieu of wine or whisky he toasts to him with his morning coffee.

“What a wonderful day it is.”

He seems… actually cheerful? Peter puts his cup down carefully, suspicion creeping at the edge of his mind.

“And what makes you so awfully… cheery today?”

Elias takes a sip from his own coffee before he turns to his breakfast. “I think I will bother Leitner today. His employees are so very entertaining.”

“Ah.” In that case, he definitely doesn’t need Peter’s help today. “How nice, dear.”

“Very.”

Peter pretends not to notice Elias stealing a slice of salmon from his plate, and Elias pretends he doesn’t know Peter sees him.

“I suppose you won’t be needing me around then?”

Elias takes his time. He chews the salmon he stole, slowly, deliberately making a point. Of what, Peter isn’t sure, but he grows impatient too quickly for his own good. Elias will draw his answer out even more the more impatient Peter gets. He does this kind of thing constantly. It’s his own kind of triumph, he suspects, the moments in which he leaves people hanging, letting them wait too long for the simplest of things, letting their minds run wild with anxiety.

He dabs his lips with a soft handkerchief. “Not around me, no.”

His words are more than he lets through. They hide his plans as well as Peter’s fog hides him and this mansion from prying eyes. Peter waits for more, for an explanation, a quick comment on what he might be thinking about, but of course there is nothing. Elias drinks his coffee; his eyes have a soft blue glow to them like the morning light. He _watches._

“Well”, Peter tries, “is there anything you’re planning?”

“A lot.” He smiles. Quick and cruel. It suits him. “I might need you to fetch one of your nephews to help us out with this.”

“You… what?” Peter stares. He expected a lot more mystery. Their usual dance, bickering, him giving in, teasing the answers out before Elias’ gives in a little more only when Peter is about to make his retreat to his boat.

“What I am planning is incredibly intricate. As far as my research goes, nobody ever attempted something like this. It requires an enormous amount of stability. And as you know I was planning to… use the wide space the Lonely provides to make sure it cannot be… interrupted. But for that, well, let’s just say I would feel better if we had at least another avatar with us that can help stabilise.”

“And… when will we actually hear about this “thing” you’re planning?” Peter has to admit he is rather impatient with this. Elias has his fair share of secrets, but he has been talking about his “plan” for nearly an entire year by now. Granted, half of it lay in one of their divorces (his nephew calls those “phases”, but Peter expertly ignores him every time he asks if he “goes through another phase”) so he isn’t on the newest page, but apparently Elias has been bothering other avatars as well. One of which the Archivist, who Peter is worried about. Jon might not be the most aggressive avatar around, but he and Elias have a history that – even from Peter’s point of view – gives him the right to be more than mad at Elias.

“My”, Elias pulls a disgusted face, “ _thing_ will be announced shortly. We will be sending out invitations.”

“Well if this is like any of our weddings, I’m not worried about too high numbers of participants.”

“Peter. It will be amazing, dear. It will change everything. Us, the world, everything.”

For a second, just a heartbeat, he waits for Elias to say “trust me”, he wants him to, wants to hear the words and wants to answer “always” just to see his grimace twist, break up, for another smile to shine through fog like the beam of a light house that guides him home. The moment passes, Elias doesn’t say it, and Peter thinks it’s better like this, he can’t possibly promise eternal trust to him. He did, several times, in several marriages, he will do it again and again and again. But it means something else in this moment, something more.

♣

“Martin!” Tim says his name like it’s an insult. With his brows furrowed in bewildered disbelieve and his arms crossed in front of his chest he stomps over to Martin’s desk. “What in the fresh hell are you doing here? You should be home!”

Tim is a tall guy, athletic, probably very strong. He has those big, dark brown puppy eyes that give him the extra touch of perfect balance between cute and hot, but right now, he looks like an upset puppy. The way he looms over him is probably meant to look intimidating but just adds to the kind of betrayed look on his face.

“It’s okay, Tim, really.” Martin smiles up at him. Tim might not manage to intimidate him, but the kicked puppy look works just as well. “My headaches are all gone, I’m ready to face the day.”

He pretends to roll up his sleeves. Tim keeps his eyes on him for a long moment before making his way to his desk, all while mumbling something about how he’s the only sensible one here and nobody ever listens to him.

“Tim, I’m okay, really.”

He’s not lying. This morning he woke up with the last traces of his headache gone, the pain from yesterday barely a memory. It was… a surprise to say the least. In his kitchen, he found the empty cup and the stranger’s teabag still in the sink. There were also two boxes of baking mix for brownies and one bag of trail mix.

“Will you be okay to work on that statement?” Tim points to the only one in his research corner. “Because if you don’t feel well, I can help you out, no problem.”

All Martin can really do is smile and reassure.

“I had some tea, yesterday evening. And it really helped. Like… like a health potion.”

“Hmm.” Tim hums, unconvinced. “Some magic health potions. Back in my time”, he makes a show of waving his hands, “we just called them drugs.”

“W-what? No! That’s… I’d… Tim! Not what… I mean I don’t… don’t think I took… drugs…” Martin stutters through a sentence he doesn’t know how to end. He doesn’t take drugs, never did, never even tried. In his confusion, when he stood in the supermarket with a teabag from a stranger, his pained head did come up with the idea of some random guy handing him drugs. But that was just ridiculous. Nobody gives out their own fix without taking a significant amount of money first. So Martin is pretty sure he didn’t take drugs yesterday.

Tim barks a laugh at his stuttering, effectively shutting him up all while heat flushes his face and ears red.

“I’m kidding, Martin. Relax.”

“Right… yes…”

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, just don’t try and pretend for our sake.” He waves a statement in his direction. “We got this. If you’re still not well, you can stay home for as long as it takes. Not as if anybody cares for schedules around here.”

“I handed a schedule in just last Friday.”

Tim just shrugs. “Well, yes. But nobody says you have to stick to it. As long as your reports come in regularly, nobody gives a shit.”

“That report I still have to write?”

“That one precisely.”

Martin flaps through the pages of the only statement he has found so far. “Maybe instead of a report I just hand in a statement myself.”

“Did you see a ghost?”

“Something like that.”

He finds the first page with eyes drawn on it, ready to copy and file this and the following pages, he gets up. Tim follows him immediately.

“You’re not joking, are you? You saw something?”

“It’s really not that big of a deal.” He moves towards the photocopier, but Tim positions himself strategically smart in Martin’s way. He’s holding out both arms trying to keep Martin from moving forward.

“Martin James Blackwood!”

“That’s not my name.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m making a point!”

Tim’s point is interrupted when Sasha walks in, her arms again full of papers, holding up one binder like a trophy.

“Guess who’s off sick to-“ She stops, both speaking and walking. “What is going on here?”

“Martin saw a ghost!” Tim says quicker than Martin can deny anything.

“Oh you did?” Sasha finally deposits her papers on her desk. “What happened? Something that floated? Something that looked rather dead and decaying?”

“Someone rather _alive._ ” He put more force than strictly needed on the last word. “Really, I was just joking. I didn’t meet some kind of supernatural anti-headache monster.”

“There are stranger things out there.” Sasha shrugs, but Tim is insistent.

“But you did meet someone. Someone, who what? Gave you drugs?”

Martin’s ears heat up again, a blush starting to creep up his cheeks. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t give me drugs. It was just… just tea!”

“Oho! We’re getting closer! So what? You met a ghost and he saw you with your headache, felt sorry, then gave you magic ghost tea?” Tim wiggles his fingers. “Spooky!”

“Well, if… if you have to know; I went to the supermarket after work. Just for… some… some essentials.” Essential for his peace of mind, that still counts. “And there, I met someone nice, who took pity on me. That’s not an encounter.”

“And you what? Just ate what that stranger gave you?”

His face must be scarlet by now. “I… it didn’t… I just… it was just tea!”

“Oh Martin, you trust too easily.” Tim pats his upper arm shaking his head.

“He just… he seemed a nice guy, I don’t… I just don’t think any- any drug dealer hands out tea in the baking aisle of a little village’s only supermarket. I could easily go to the police.”

“Okay, describe him to me.”

Sasha looks up from her papers and binders. There is a decent chance for Tim or Sasha to actually know his mystery tea dealer.

“He was…” Martin hesitates, his determination (to prove what exactly?) dying as he thinks back to the moment. “He… I mean…”

“Oho, now it’s getting interesting, maybe you should write a statement after all.”

“Martin?” For the first time, Sasha sounds concerned. “You do remember whoever you met, right?”

“I… it was…” Martin shakes his head. His memory is hazy, of course it is, he had a headache bad enough that he forgot he actually drank the tea until he found his cup this morning. “It was a man. And he was about this tall.”

With one hand he shows the stranger’s height at around his own chest height; he’s not entirely sure, but it’s the best he can do. It’s definitely one of the details he remembers clearly, simply because he had to look down after a moment of confusion.

“Yes? Okay?” Tim nods. “That’s not very telling.”

Martin just huffs. “He was... I think he…” _He was pretty blurry._ “I think, he wore glasses.”

“You think? Oh this is great!” Tim nearly jumps in excitement. “Many people have problems describing what they saw after an encounter with the supernatural. What did you see? How did you feel?”

By now, Sasha makes a beeline over to them, a notepad and a pen in her hand. “Do you want to write it down?”

“Guys, seriously, it’s okay. I just… I can barely remember anything from yesterday, my head was really hurting, it’s just… he was very non-threatening, but also very definitely human and not supernatural.”

Tim nods in mock concentration. “Okay, this description sounds a lot like half the population of the village. Male and non-threatening.”

“And smaller than Martin.” Sasha scribbles something on her notepad. “Anything special? Dyed hair? Scars? Extra limbs?”

“What? No. None of those. Just… he was… well thinking back he was pretty rude. I mean, he didn’t really say something rude, not outright so, just… he just… told me I looked awful. And he kept his tea in an empty cigarette box? I think… I’m not sure about that one. But he did call it a potion himself!”

This time, Tim and Sasha exchange a look that has Martin freeze in his babbling.

“What? Please don’t tell me he’s a known criminal or a witch practising black magic, or… or…” Both scenarios he had to deal with in his former job. Some people call reporters instead of the police if they think a supernatural element is involved. More often than not, it was the wrong call, but that doesn’t mean people stop.

Sasha just chuckles. “He’s not, don’t worry. It sounds, however, like you ran right into Jon.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds a hell of a lot like Jon. Carrying plants instead of cigarettes, calling tea potions, being rude in general.” Tim is holding up one hand and checks off one finger for each aspect on his list.

“Oh.” Martin deflates a little. He really didn’t want to have a supernatural encounter (he’s still not entirely sure he believes in any of it, he just… has some trouble rationalising the entire last few days), but now, it feels like he’s disappointing Tim and Sasha. “And… who is that again?”

Tim gasps dramatically, grabbing his shirt right over his heart. “Martin! I told you about the elementary school teacher! With a death glare!”

“Oh yeah, I remember him.” Hard to forget someone if you discussed their likelihood to be a serial killer.

“To be fair”, Sasha says, “he isn’t the only elementary teacher, that’d be a little awkward. He just has such a teacher vibe, you know? And we have our fair share of men named Jon around here; the baker John, the McKinley child, you know how it is, it’s a common name. Your Jon”, she points to Martin, “that was definitely Jon the elementary school teacher.”

“And you’re so sure about this because…?”

“Because we told you about him, Martin!” Tim throws his hands up. “He lives in the Tonner cabin? Looks like someone tried to kill him for black magic back in 1646, and old lady Willison up the hill once tried to have him removed from the teaching staff on behalf of him being a witch.”

Sasha swings her notepad pretending to hit him over the head. “Don’t be mean, Tim.” Then, to Martin she says: “Before he moved here, Jon was in a really bad accident. Gossip has it that a car crashed through the wall of a building he was in, or he was in a nasty car crash. Something along those lines at least. That’s how he got his scars.”

“Unless you’re Mrs. Willison!” Tim pipes up again before Sasha can swing anything at him and actually hit this time. “In that case, he has his scars from multiple demonic rituals with which he tried to get his hands on human souls.”

“Scars?” The image Martin has of Jon shows him as small and too thin (or rather in a too big jacket, that’s probably why he looked so small), but not particularly scarred. Then again, if Tim asked for his hair colour, Martin wouldn’t be able to answer. He had a… sharpness to him. Something Martin can’t name, but he is sure he would remember scars. Especially in the amount Tim is implying.

“Quite a lot.”

“At least you didn’t run into an actual ghost.” Sasha smiles up at him, her eyes warm with relieve. “Or Jane Prentiss for that matter.”

Tim pulls a face. “Sash, if that’s your sneaky way of telling me to get on with my research, you have to remember I need”

“The Prentiss files?” Sasha waves towards the binder she brought with her. “All there, found them easily.”

“Sweet! Maybe we can share them later, Martin!” He shoots finger guns at Martin before picking the binder from Sasha’s desk.

“And you are…?” Sasha looks him over once.

“I just wanted to copy these drawings to add them to the file.” He holds up the statement for her to see the circular drawings that slowly morph into eyes.

“Good to know, but I mean your health. Are you sure you want to come back to work this quickly? There’s no shame in taking breaks.”

“Oh, ye-yes! I’m okay!” He nods – without any pain of course. “Maybe Jon really is some kind of witch, his tea helped a lot.”

♣

It takes the entire morning for Tim to stop making ghost related puns whenever he talks to Martin. And even after working through most of the Prentiss file, he still has enough spirit (eeeeh) left to talk both Martin and Sasha into helping him out with his files. Which is really not that hard in Martin’s case because it gives him the opportunity to find his own way through their systems. It also creates huge pockets of time spending clicking through old data, trying to find any supplementals that might mention the name “Prentiss” or any of the tags Tim gives him.

_At least I know now I’m not on drugs and – Prentiss, police record, this one – and this day is not just a very long, very boring trip. But – disappearance? No match for Prentiss – but honestly, who does that? Is this the kind of familiarity I have to get used to in a small village where everyone knows everyone? – similar cases from: France and Germany; maybe those can help – He knew my name. Or did I tell him? Maybe I was the rude one?_

“Do you think he expects a thank you?”, Martin asks after a long while of searching and dismissing leads.

Tim doesn’t look up from his screen, just mumbles with his chin still on his palm: “Who expects it for what?”

“Jon. A thank you for his help.”

“Don’t think so. He’s not the kind of guy who just expects others to do things he didn’t ask them for.”

“Maybe he’d enjoy some cake. Do you know if he likes chocolate?”

This time, Tim looks up. “I don’t, actually. But you can never go wrong with cake.”

“I don’t know his allergies… I just want to say thank you and not… kill him.”

“Martin. You think too much about this. You’re not trying to propose, just go over, say _Thank you very much for the tea that was totally not drugs_ and it’s all good.”

Martin isn’t convinced. It might be not that big of a deal to Tim, but he is… well. He’s Martin. He stumbles over his words, and he’s big and loud, and apologises too much and he _clings._ Maybe he should let it go, just not do anything, not say thanks and let it slide. Is that the right thing to do? Taking help as a given and moving past without acknowledging?

It’s what he expects from people. It’s what people did his entire life with him. Martin helps where he can, people take it, then drop him with too few words to mean anything.

 _Brownies,_ he decides then, clicking through digitalised reports on the Prentiss case. _Brownies for Jon and I’ll tell him his tea helped and that I’m… I’m not sorry. I won’t apologise, just thank him politely._

Then he opens the police report from the night of Jane Prentiss’ disappearance, and manages to override his entire thoughts with a missing woman that, for some reason, is believed to have come back from the dead.

It is a somewhat morbid story.

Jane left the village years ago (to practice witchcraft, but Martin doesn’t know who added the asterisk there) and only moved in with her parents again after a breakdown had her quit her job. She seemed to do better here, much better actually. She had people around her she loved and who loved her back. For a while she was on her way to recovery, she even took to gardenwork and people saw her rid her little flowers from a worm infestation.

 _Still was a bit weird to see her sit right in the middle of those silver things. Not really concerning, no. Better to have some worms on your skirt than go all berserk on your job. Glad she came back,_ says a witness statement.

And then… then she disappeared. Not that easily, of course, nothing that has to do with any kind of (supposedly) supernatural instance is ever easy. She left a lot of things behind; letters, diaries (full of scribbling, of shapes that writhe and squirm, of the words “I love you” and “I am your home” over and over again) and there is a direct statement she wrote for Leitner somewhere in the archives that Tim still waits for. For some odd reason all the reports keep referencing a wasps’ nest in the Prentiss’ attic Jane talked about a lot.

People sometimes report something like her. Never Jane Prentiss herself, just _something like her._ There are files titled “Encounters; entity formerly known as J. Prentiss” from various cities (one or two even from London, it’s somewhat surprising nobody set the magazine on her heels), blurry pictures of dark alleyways and squelched worms, and a follow up request to a statement from Timothy Hodge that nobody answered.

It's a tragedy for someone to just disappear like that. Vanish without a trace, without a chance to ever be found. She had family, her parents still live here. She had many people who knew her in the village.

Martin takes a moment to himself, just for a second, he wonders if people would report him as missing. The nurses would certainly think he finally gave up, if he stopped calling. Leitner would fire him, if he stopped coming to work. And… oh… that’s all there is to him. He shakes his head before he can fall down this particular rabbit hole.

Luckily, Tim provides a welcome distraction just as Martin decides to get himself (and in extension Sasha and Tim of course) one more cup of tea.

“Martin! You’ve got to see this!” He waves him over to his computer even before Martin has any time to move to the break room.

“I was about to fetch us some tea?”

“The tea can wait. Sash, you want to see this, too.”

Sasha makes one last scribble on her papers before moving to stand behind Tim. All while Martin spares a longing glance in the general direction of the break room.

The important thing Tim has for them, is the YouTube channel of Ghost Hunt UK. The logo fills the screen for a moment, then Tim clicks on play and the video springs to life.

“We have to convince her to make some extra content somewhere around here”, he says.

Sasha snorts. “Some special edition my friends pressured me into doing.”

“That’s the perfect title!”

The new episode was, of course, not filmed anywhere around here. Instead, they’re somewhere in the southeast, on the cemetery of a city Martin had never heard of before today. It begins, as always, with a short introduction given by both Melanie and her co-host Andy. Apparently, a ghost was seen haunting the old chapel in one corner of the cemetery. An old building that’s held together by faith and stubbornness and nothing else. One of the wooden doors is rusted in its hinges, while the other hangs open, only leaning against the frame. Legend has it, that someone witnessed a murder in the chapel and the murderer buried them together with the victim’s corpse. Some of the local teenagers sometimes dare each other to enter the chapel and sit on the rotting benches for as long as they can before coming back out. None makes it very long, but one swears a hand came out between the floor boards and from the darkness around a voice called for them, something in a different language (probably Latin because everything is more ominous in Latin).

Melanie and Andy start out with the surroundings of the chapel, talking about the possibilities of this haunting, holding out EMF meter and Geiger counter to measure one spot and another.

“There are no burn marks anywhere around, so I guess we can rule out the Cult of the Lightless Flame”, Melanie says while holding an EMF meter to an empty window frame.

Andy holds up a polaroid camera to the window itself. “I have to say, Melanie”, he says after taking a picture, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions just yet, but this seems more like something those darkness guys would get up to. The Church of the Divine Host. They certainly enjoy churches and chapels.”

“Yeah, but they don’t just chant in Latin. They’re more like a cult that tries to scare people enough to join them. I’m actually betting either on the ghost of the murder victim or the witness.” She holds up the EMF meter, but finds nothing of interest.

For a second Andy says nothing, just takes another picture from farther away. “We should take a look inside, if there are chunks of earth, like mole hills on the floorboards.”

They do so after Melanie finishes up with the last window. The inside isn’t that big, there are barely enough benches to fill the room, but the ones that are left are either full of dust or half rotten. The altar is broken, dust and trash littering the floor.

“Okay.” Andy takes a picture of the entire interior. “Off to exploring the entire chapel, which doesn’t sound like much, but there’s a second room over… there!” He points to the back of the room where a slightly ajar door just waits for them to step through. It is – Martin notices for some reason – not yellow.

“Hey, Andy!” Melanie calls him and the camera team to her. “Look at this!”

The camera pans over Melanie’s back first before it focusses on the floor. Between the floorboards, a piece of cloth sticks out.

“I say this was ripped off of like jeans or some kind of trouser leg.”

Andy takes a picture. The cloth is blue with streaks of dark soil at its edge. 

“This must be were the hand grabs people.”

“Take a selfie with it.”

They don’t. Instead they take more readings of different parts of the chapel, even of the benches and the stained cloth. There is nothing that points to active cults using this chapel, only dust and thicker dust in the parts that not even the bravest of the teenagers dare to enter. Melanie narrates most of it, takes pictures and points out more of the evidence they find. They find nothing on the polaroid pictures but uncover the secret of how much dust someone has to breathe in to cough for two whole minutes. While the piece of cloth doesn’t help them much, filming a few steps away from there seems to become a challenge. Interferences switch their night camera off at one point and they have to keep filming with only one. Audio and video distortions appear at the entrance to the backroom. The door from there to the backside of the chapel was once locked with an iron chain that now only swings lazily without any wind to carry it.

In the end, they don’t find definite proof of anything, but Martin has a creeping feeling in the back of his mind. The distortions in the audio sets him on edge. He has always been a little claustrophobic and while Melanie makes a quip in the end credits about how the distortions sound like ripping cloth, Martin can’t stop himself from imagining fingernails scratching at the inside of a wooden coffin. Desperate to reach someone outside but unable to break free from their unwilling tomb, buried half-alive, dying – screaming.

“See?”, Sasha says as the credits to the Ghost Hunt UK team appear on a black screen, “we don’t have haunted chapels around here.”

Tim just waves her words away. “There’s other stuff.”

“What? Like the three different cases you’re on?” Her voice is teasing, but still reminds Tim of the work he just delayed but didn’t escape.

“Well, we might as well get back to Prentiss… tomorrow.” He closes the page with a quick click. “Come on, Sash, we’ve been on this case for far too long! And as soon as Sarah comes back and we’re back to full power, we can make far more progress! But it’s nearly three and I know for a fact that Martin clocks out at four”, he shoots him a quick wink and Martin has barely enough time to nod before he continues, “so what else can we get done on our own?”

“Quite a lot if you tried.”

Tim has no chance to answer as quick steps demand their attention. They didn’t hear the lift door or the sound the lift made when it arrived, just the steps, walking – striding towards them, through the left corridor. Martin, Sasha, and Tim turn instantly.

It can’t be a scout, their soles while demanding attention sound softer, well worn, exactly like Martin expects adventurers to sound. These shoes however have never seen dirt, the steps echo, the person they carry hold no horrors in their arms. And the man that enters the office, striding like he belongs here, is a lot of things, but not one of these has a place here. For one, he looks insanely rich. Not in a Leitner-way, who likes to collect and show off in all the most obvious ways. No. His suit is fitted, there is no dirt, no dust on any part of his body, not even his shoes. His blond hair is slicked back with hair gel, in his hands he holds a walking stick that looks more like accessory and not an actual cane. This kind of rich shows off enough casualty to make everyone around him feel bad for their own clothes and income. People like him go out to buy the most expensive item not to use them but simply because they can.

“Ah”, he says, his voice deeper than Martin expected it to be, “did I interrupt something?”

His eyes _shine,_ their pale blue reflecting the light. He takes his time to look them all over, catalogue his findings, dig deeper even, scuffling through their heads on his search of secrets.

“Yes!”, Tim says immediately. “We’re researching, that’s what we do here. And we’re best at that if we don’t get interrupted.”

“I see.” He doesn’t seem to mind that Tim tries to get rid of him. “And you have a new face here!”

With his quick striding pace he comes up to Martin, scanning him from head to toe with those unsettling eyes, blue like a sick, washed out sky.

“Martin Blackwood”, the man says slowly. Martin’s own name sounds so… wrong in this voice. Twisted, corrupted, carrying all that Martin is, all his thoughts and secrets and all words he ever spoke and even things he didn’t dare to say.

“I… yes, yeah, that’s me.” He holds out his hand for a handshake.

“Hm. Interesting.” He shakes his hand. “Elias Bouchard. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uhm… yes.”

“Now.” Elias turns to Sasha. “I believe, you were about to tell me about your current statements.”

Sasha smiles. It’s clearly fake, but Elias doesn’t comment on it. “You know we cannot just hand out information on still ongoing cases. You can send a request to see the records to Leitner.”

“Fair enough.” His smile is far more pleasant than expected. “I just came … to chat. It has been a while since I’ve last been here. And as you know, Mr. Leitner and I have… a history.”

In Elias back, Martin can see Tim mouth “they fucked” and make a lewd gesture with both hands. Sasha sees it, too, but gives no indication that she did.

“Of course, Elias, but we all have work to do.”

“And I wouldn’t dream to keep you from it.” He smiles. It is certainly a pleasant smile that somehow manages to be both indifferent and amused at the same time. “I am simply… curious.”

“Curious about what? Our filing system? I’m pretty sure you know how we work, there’s nothing new to this.” Sasha waves to the overfilled tables and boxes. “But sure, take a look around.”

“Now, now, Ms. James.” Elias sets his walking stick down and rests both hands on the shiny top. “Knowledge is something that I hold very dearly. Besides, can a man not show off some of the luck he is blessed with from now on? I am newly married.”

In a languid motion, Elias holds up his hand to show them the wedding ring that gleams there. It is brightly gold (polished it seems) with colourful jewels embedded in its middle. In its extravagance it looks more like a Victorian relict than a wedding ring for someone in this age.

“Congratulations from all of us”, Sasha says. Tim and Martin simply nod.

“Thank you. Indeed I didn’t think it possible for us to find together again, but certain… changes await. And Peter was rather charming when he asked me again.”

Elias eyes find Martin’s. For the shortest of breaths, Martin has the bone-deep feeling of someone forcing his head open. There is the intense need for his lips to part and to spill all his secrets, nothing else matters, except that he right now has to tell everyone within earshot that he once stole a bottle of liquor from his mom’s hidden alcohol stash just to impress that one cool guy at school (it’s a long story, he had a crush on him, things didn’t work out). He doesn’t. The feeling leaves him again, but Elias’ eyes stay on him.

“So of course I said Yes.” He never stops smiling. Not even as he rests his hand back on his walking stick, his gaze still on Martin like a predator fixating on its victim. Martin can’t look back. The stare is too intense, too greedy. Elias knows – no matter how impossible and ridiculous it seems, Martin is certain that Elias knows everything that he is. He sees him and extracts every piece of information just with his cold, washed out eyes.

“Of course”, Martin repeats. He tries to smile, tries to make his face react in any other way than the careful closed off expression he knows he’s wearing. Some people just have an intensity to them that feels like they’re seeing right through you. But there is no way that Elias Bouchard can actually read minds. He doesn’t know Martin’s life, he certainly can’t guess his secrets from just a momentary glance at him, no matter how much he stares, it just doesn’t work like that.

“Very well, it seems I found what I came for.” Elias shakes Martin’s hand again, then Sasha’s and Tim’s in this order.

“I hope you all have a good week and… well, non-supernatural days as you say here.”

Martin has yet to hear anybody say that, but he doesn’t object, just watches Elias nod to them all one last time, then make his retreat back to the lift. He walks, again, like he belongs here. And all the way back, even with his back turned and his walking stick swinging at his side, Martin feels his eyes on him. Which is ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous. Right?

There is something watching. Not watching over them, not in a curious intake of freely provided information, but in a violent stare, prying open bodies and heads to watch them burn, squirm, escape, and fail. A cruel kind of watching, indifferent to suffering and pain.

The lift doors close. The watching lingers for a long moment, then snaps and its absence is just as violently obvious as its presence was.

Martin drops into his chair, somehow drained of all his will.

“What was that?”, he asks unsure if he really wants an answer.

“That was Elias Bouchard”, Tim answers. He looks just as tired as Martin feels. “He’s always like that.”

“What…” Martin huffs a breath. “What did he even want? I- I mean he didn’t really… do anything. He just… what? Showed off his ring?”

Next to him, Sasha shivers, her arms wrapped around herself. “Don’t remind me. That stupid ring. It always gives me the chills.”

“How often do we have to put up with him?” Martin doesn’t need any psychic powers to know that he wants the answer to be “never again”. _This was his last visit ever, he can never come back. Lucky us!_

“Usually a few times whenever he comes here with his husband”, Sasha says. “Today was the mandatory ring show off.” She shivers again. “He will probably be around for the rest of the week, annoying every single department, donating too much money to Leitner as a thank you for letting him snoop around everywhere, then vanish for a few months and reappear randomly. Just like today.”

Tim groans. “If I never have to see Elias Bouchard again it’s still too soon.”

“And he… he… he just… does that?”

“Yes. Just that.” Sasha takes her glasses off in favour of rubbing her hands over her face.

“And he’s just so persistent! Like food stains on white shirts!”, Tim wails. “Seriously, the only one, who gets him to leave us alone was Gertrude, but she’s retired now and lives with her grandson down in Brighton these days. He works there as a writer or something. God knows what she did to get Elias to just… shut up.”

Martin is too tired to ask if this is the same Gertrude, who sent her assistant into the murder maze behind the yellow door.

“Alright, this is it”, Sasha says. “The day is over. We’re all going home. One minute with Elias equals roughly two hours of work. The day is over.”

“It does?” Martin chuckles to himself. He ponders if he can just spend five minutes talking to Elias and write it off as an entire workday, but the very thought of spending more time with this man repulses him.

“I could use a drink!”, Tim says. “We all deserve one after this.”

“Hell yeah we do.”

“Uhm…” It is not even four, but Martin wants to make the brownies he keeps thinking about baking for his neighbours and his co-workers and Jon, and if he gets home too late it’s going to be too late to introduce himself to his neighbours properly when the brownies are done and cooled down enough to actually eat them. Besides, there is a decent chance for him to burn those as well, and he really doesn’t want to fall asleep before they’re done. It’s one thing to burn your cakes but it’s another entirely to endanger the entire house.

“Maybe next time.”

“Your call.” Tim switches his computer off and stuffs his things into his bag, eager to leave as soon as possible. “But Friday, you have to come with us. To celebrate your whole thing with working here for an entire week without going insane.”

“Not so fast, he still has three more days to lose his mind.”

Martin is fairly certain that Sasha is joking, but he never knows with this job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After long days of thinking this over, I realised that I just don't know how to write Elias; at least not in any serious way, he's the entire circus (no offense to Nikola of course).
> 
> Up next: Martin fakes a smile, Jon receives brownies, and Tim and Sasha share their gossip


	5. How to leave a good first impression – wait no, not like that!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Sasha share their gossip, Jon receives brownies, and Martin fakes a smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of child neglect, mention of physical abuse (it’s Martin's mom again) if you want to skip that just start reading at the first ♣
> 
> THANKS to everyone who commented on this so far! I love you guys! It's amazing to know that people enjoy this! So Thank You All So Much!

Martin rubs his hands over both his eyes. His tears are hot on his face, streaming down the flushed blotchy skin on his cheeks. They drip from his chin, over his nose, down his throat. Every part of his face is raw, burning under every touch. His breath hitches, more tears find their way down his face.

He hates Fridays. He hates hates _hates_ Fridays.

Life is supposed to stay good once it has a chance to. And it had so many bloody chances! His baking skills didn’t improve, but they sure as hell were enough not to mess up the brownies – his neighbours loved them! They complimented him, told him he was polite, very kind, very thoughtful. They enjoyed chatting with him. The nice couple in the flat across from his had shared their homegrown peppers with him. The elderly woman one floor above him even called for the family from across her flat to have them all gather in her living room and Martin had shared his brownies with all of them. The evening had been _nice_ , very comfortable. And it wasn’t some kind of stupid neighbourly pressure to get on with everyone that made them be nice to Martin. On Wednesday, when Sarah had come back (she still hovered around the phone, just to make sure, just in case the school called again) Martin had brought the leftover brownies for them to share. They had been appreciated by everyone, Sarah had even asked him if she could take the last two with her for her daughter.

It was a good week. It had been such a good week.

Just yesterday, while making another batch of these stupid baking mix brownies that are probably too sweet anyway, just yesterday when he re-read his dumb encouraging note sheet, he had allowed himself to hold onto the moment. With some tea in a cup from a still incomplete set in the middle of boxes he still has to unpack, he had allowed himself to think that maybe things aren’t so bad, that maybe he has been right all along and that, yes, everything was going to be okay.

Of course it was a lie. It will always be a lie.

Because this morning, Martin woke up with a smile, with determination, prepared for the day, for whatever the world wanted to throw his way. And still smiling – a lie to keep his mind occupied, to keep him from spiralling, from shying away from the phone – he dialled the number of his mom’s nursing home for the very first time on his new phone. His smile didn’t falter when he spoke to the nurse.

It was, however, gone as soon as his mother accepted the call.

Martin hiccups, his throat raw, his tears stinging in his eyes. The stark neon lights of the men’s bathroom in the research centre cast dark shadows of the modern sinks. The reflection the mirror shows him is a pathetic copy of himself. He is lost, broken apart under words that never helped to soothe the longing for any crumb of affection thrown his way. His mother’s voice is sharp. There was a time – he remembers, he really does, it gets harder the older he gets, but he’s sure there was a time – when she spoke carefully, picking all the right words to dry any tears. Back then, when he had cried about open knees and a lost teddy. A time when everything about her had been soft – loving, it’s the word he wants to use, it’s as what he wants to remember her; as loving.

She didn’t scream today. Not this time. Just told him to write a card to his cousin’s wedding, to put her name on it as well.

He’d forget, she said.

“I wouldn’t. I could never.”

And her laugh hurt. Her laugh was pitched, piercing, bruising him like her hands had whenever she had grabbed his arms a little too forcefully, yanking him away from her – always away, never towards, never into an embrace, never to keep him safe, but always to keep him away. For years the only touch Martin had received, for years the only warmth had come from the coloured skin under her otherwise weak fingers.

He’d forget, she insisted. He has to buy a wedding gift to send back. Not the cheapest gift on their list, she doesn’t want him to embarrass her any more.

“I won’t. Mom, I promise you I won’t.”

It was as much a promise as all his promises before. Pleas more than anything, desperate begging to believe him. And as always it fell on deaf ears.

But he survived. He always does, of course. And now, he stands in the men’s bathroom after a meeting with his boss that felt like it had no end. An antithesis to his conversation with his mom.

Apparently Leitner is satisfied with his performance so far. And Martin smiles. He smiles at his reflection, forces the corners of his lips upwards, to stretch the red skin on his cheeks until it hurts him.

It’s okay. He’s okay. He has things to do today. Sasha and Tim reminded him of his promise to come to the pub with them today. He is _busy_. He has no time to stand here and wallow in self-pity. There are new statements to read – he found another real one among the other… stories – and surely new ways for Tim to rope him into helping him doing his work.

At least he doesn’t have to wait for his mother to call him back on Sunday.

Martin wipes the tears from his eyes, then splashes cold water in his burning face. The cold can’t calm him down, can’t hold his racing mind. He does it again. With a paper towel he cleans his face and the mess around the sink. His eyes still look so very tired, a little red on the edges, but he can shrug it off, can talk about his meeting with Leitner. All he needs to do is smile. So he does.

He’s great at this, all of this, of hiding, of opening up to others with an honesty that lets them forget that there’s more to him than just tea and helpful hands.

♣

“Martin!”

Calling out his name is quickly becoming Tim’s favourite way of greeting him. Sarah just greets him with a quiet “Good morning” from her desk, but Sasha is nowhere to be seen. She should be here already, but maybe she was called to the archives again. Yesterday, someone came up already asking for her assistance in “computer matters” as he said.

“If she wanted to, she’d be able to hack into just about anything. There’s nothing safe”, Tim said with his feet up on his desk.

He sits like that now, too. Holding a file folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The grin on his face is one you don’t want children to wear, it looks mischievous, but Martin suspects it’s just Tim’s usual Friday morning mood.

“Oh, are those sweets?” He sits up to deposit his file and cup on his desk and rubs his hands expectantly. “Martin, you spoil us.”

Martin smiles at him. “They aren’t for you, unfortunately.”

Quickly, the blue Tupper box disappears into one of his drawers. Tim follows it with his eyes, clearly more interested in it now that he doesn’t know its purpose.

“I see how it is, you neglect us here.”

Sarah chuckles. “If we’re already talking about sweets. Martin, my husband wants to know your recipe, he loved the brownies.”

“Oh, I’m sorry”, Martin scratches the back of his neck with one hand, the first traces of a blush high on his cheeks. “It was just a baking mix, there’s no recipe to it.”

“Freestyle then.” Tim shoots finger guns at him. “I like it.”

Only Tim can describe a baking mix as “freestyle”. It turns Martin’s smile back into a real one, an actual smile he doesn’t have to force. It’s easy to smile with your worries pressed into the back of your head, not forgotten, but ignored. Martin is very good at ignoring the things that complicate his life (like ghosts or his own feelings of unease) and push them far, far away from himself. Something he knows his mother does regularly (every Friday, every time he calls), but he can’t bring himself to see anything in it. Just a fact. Just something a child learned from their only parent.

“Now”, Tim says, leaning forward with his head in his hands. “How was your meeting with the big boss up there?”

Martin sighs. “It was okay. My report was pretty short, but he said that was to be expected for just one week.”

“Pretty short”, Tim sets quotation marks in the air, “I once handed in a report that just said I had no real statements, only ghost stories. That was _pretty short._ ”

“Was it…” Martin shoots a glance to the doorways as if expecting Jurgen Leitner himself to step in from eavesdropping on their work. “I mean… did that really happen or… you know? Did you… fake it?”

“Martin Blackwood.” As Tim’s grin spreads all over his face, Martin blushes deeply. Maybe this was a stupid question? Not everyone lies on official documents. He’s sure it’s generally frowned upon. Who is he kidding? It is _illegal_ to forge documents like … oh I don’t know… your CV for example.

“I did _not_ lie on my report.” Tim is still smiling. “But nobody questioned me, so I guess I could have.”

“I guess something like that can happen”, Sarah says. “And nobody really cares because you still well… did your work. But if it happens too often they would definitely ask for proof. Leitner is a little fixated, but by god he’s not that stupid.”

“Yeah.” Tim’s smile is still a little concerning, his eyes gleaming with mischief. Like Martin just gave him the most amazing prank idea of the century. “Then again, he has a department for conspiracy theories and alien abductions.”

“And they have true statements, too?”, Martin asks.

“Sure. I mean…” Tim gestures to the mountains of paper waiting for them to be read. “If we have statements about some dark figure build from shadows that stands menacingly at your bedroom door and only walks towards you when you look at it, like some ghost from Super Mario, then there’s nothing surprising about someone falling upwards into the sky.”

“Falling… upwards…” Martin imagines every alien abduction all the bad Hollywood movies forced him to witness. “But shouldn’t there be… like… a beam of light?”

Tim shrugs. “You’re the parapsychologist here. If you don’t know, how should we?”

“Uhm…” _Good point actually._

“Speaking of Blanket Guy”, Sarah says, “the labs finally sent a report on the liquid darkness sample. Safety regulations have been updated. Our insurance doesn’t cover darkness induced injuries.”

“Too bad.”

“Wait what?” Martin just looks from Sarah to Tim and back again.

“If you come into contact with liquid darkness and get cursed”, Sarah shrugs, “Sucks, but you’re not getting any repair payments. Unless you can prove that someone or something else forced you to. Like someone threatening you, or a book controlling you.”

“A… book… controlling me.” Martin can’t help but to think back to Leitner’s private library and the thick wooden doors straining in their frame. He read so many books in his life, so many stories, poems, one or another academic paper, how could he know which one of these was in any way of supernatural origin? How does the supernatural manifest in books? The words of his first real statement – the camera that showed all secrets – dance in front of his eyes. Like that. Just writing it down, just giving the words a playground of fresh white paper, pressing them into shapes of letters, forcing the ink to soak up their power and have it dry uninterrupted, just that had the words become _more._

“Yes”, Sarah says. “Sometimes books… well… they make you do things. But don’t worry about them, the dangerous ones are locked away.”

“Like that children’s book.” Tim makes a wiggling motion with his hand. “The spider one.”

“The…” Martin tries but can’t see any resemblance between a spider and Tim’s finger movement. “The spider one?”

“That one was a donation and it came with instructions.”

“Instructions.” He’s quickly becoming a broken record.

“Yes. On how to use it and what it does. So of course we locked it away after peeling the sticker off.”

“Sticker? Someone put stickers on a cursed book?”

“Not just anyone.” Tim grins. “Jonah Magnus did.”

Jonah Magnus, now, _that_ name rings all his bells. The Magnus Library was one of the institutions he had applied to before the magazine hired him. It had a somewhat notorious image among the paranormal investigators in London’s underground. Some say it was built on old prison tunnels filled with ghosts and ghouls and whatnot. Others say the books cannot be checked out for safety reasons, if they were ever to be removed from their places, something terrible would happen (alternate timelines bleeding into each other, the end of the world as we know it, that sort of thing). The founder, Jonah Magnus, was very picky with the books he wanted in his library. The majority of its collection consists of biographies and auto-biographies, books on historical events with eyewitness statements, books on architecture, and all kinds of newspapers reaching back to the eighteen-hundreds. Every fiction book is handpicked by whoever the new library head is. Really, Martin doesn’t follow these changes, but it’s Jonah Magnus’ luck that the library’s collection didn’t change much over the last two hundred years and all the following heads of the library all seem to have the same taste as Magnus’ had. But even though Martin never had anything to do with the library itself, he knows that roughly four years ago, a tragic accident happened there, resulting in the death of several employees and interns, and a huge lawsuit for the library. Martin didn’t pay it that much attention, some of his colleagues had already dug their claws into the case, so he concentrated on his own struggles.

“Are you telling me you have books from the Library of Jonah Magnus in artefact storage?”

Tim nods grinning widely. “We do. They all have that little library sticker on the inside of the front cover that just says _Property of Jonah Magnus._ Pretty stupid if you ask me. That guy has been dead for some two hundred years or something. His only property is the dust in his grave.”

“But… how did you get your hands on those books? Once a book is part of Magnus’ library it doesn’t leave the building ever again.”

“Yeah, well. We have connections to people, who have connections to people, who know people, who…” Tim trails off.

“We get them from anonymous donors”, Sarah says. “The sticker on the inside comes off and nobody has any proof anymore.”

“Do you have scouts that specialise in stealing … books?” Being a book thief sounded far more illegal than collecting statements, but also far less dangerous. Unless of course, the employees of Magnus’ library have some defences on their own. But that’s just ridiculous.

“No, no, when I said anonymous donors”, Sarah looks him into the eyes, her stare hard and honest, “I mean it. We don’t ask where they found the books or how they managed to figure out how they work. We just take them… into custody. And take all necessary precautions.”

Another reason to stay away from artefact storage: Books that can kill you. Martin is quick to adapt, he stayed sceptic about most (if not every) case the magazine worked on, but here? Scepticism doesn’t help here. Everything is… if not real at least very convincing. At least they take precautions to make sure not too many people get killed. That’s all he asks for. He’s not about to quit his job just because he’s confronted with some weird feeling of being watched while reading a statement about intrusive staring, or some itching on his cheeks after going through the Prentiss files. Leitner pays well, he can live with supernatural back and forth as long as it pays his bills.

“Good to know.”

“So if you ever stumble over a Magnus book”, Tim says, “just donate it to us. Leitner will give you a raise, I can promise you that.”

“I uhm… I will. I guess. Just… uhm… I just really hope I never have to find a book with murderous tendencies in my… my attic or something.” He nods. Finding deadly books has never been a hobby of his.

“I don’t know, I think it would be exciting. If given the chance I would definitely rub it into Elias’ face that _another_ book got out.”

“Elias? What has Elias to do with any of this?”

“Hm? Oh, he’s the new Head of the Library. Took over right after James Wright died. I mean…” Tim scratches his chin with his pen. “He was promoted before, but Wright died like a week after.”

“We’re not saying that Elias killed him”, Sarah says.

“I do”, says Tim. “But that’s beside the point.”

Martin covers his face with his hands. “I think we’re well past whatever point we tried to make, so this might as well come up.”

“Says the guy who thought that _Jon_ of all people…”

“By the way!” Martin speaks just barely louder than Tim, but it works just as well, and Tim stops talking, still with that grin plastered all over his face. “The brownies are for Jon, as a… you know? A thank you.”

Tim nods. “For his drugs.”

“For the _tea._ ” He’s blushing, of course he’s blushing. Martin reaches for the drawer with Jon’s sweets, but he doesn’t know what to do with them after he opened it, so he just looks at them for a moment.

“I just… uhm… I realised yesterday that I...” His face is hot all over. “I don’t… don’t know where he lives.”

The Tonner cottage might mean something to Tim and Sasha, but Martin is still new in town. He has no idea where people live, what the streets are called, where to find the best cake. It’ll take him some more time, the rest of his life maybe, to find all the spots the village has to offer. It’s just that he doesn’t have a lifetime to figure out how to hand someone a present.

“Oh, that’s easy.” Tim plucks out a page from a fake statement to write on the back. “You just follow these instructions and you should be there in barely twenty minutes.”

Martin takes his instructional fake-statement after Tim finishes it off with a big smiley face.

“Just don’t forget that we’re going out drinking tonight.” Then he turns to Sarah. “You coming, too?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.” She sighs. “My mother-in-law wants to celebrate her birthday tomorrow, so I’m on baking and preparing salad duty.”

“Sucks. Next time then.”

“Yeah, next time.”

♣

Tim’s instructions are… interesting. Borderline nonsensical even. Martin tries his hardest to follow them, to just keep up with the landmarks Tim used instead of street names, but it’s not easy. He doesn’t know where the Simmons farm is and even the short _follow until the wall stops then left until the Simmons farm_ only helps insofar as Martin hopes to meet other people that can maybe direct him further towards the Tonner cottage. The main road towards the village and off to the vacation cabins is well maintained, and his car only complains a few times after leaving the main streets and taking a left turn towards a small hut-like house. It is, as he discovers, empty, sprayed with tags, and full of litter. Not something people would rent for their honeymoon.

Further out he finds cows or sheep on wide fields that all look really cute but can’t give him any directions where to go.

 _It’s easy to find,_ says Tim’s instructional fake-statement. _You can already see it after you turn left at the big half-dead tree that looks a lot like a generic horror movie tree._

Martin… isn’t sure. There is, in fact, a tall tree with wide branches that reach out into every direction. It looks rather alive. And he has yet to pass a farm house. Somewhere off to his left he can just make out something that could be a house? It’s a clear day, the few clouds that obscure the sun from time to time only throw light shades over the land, nothing to make navigating this hard. Still, he is already driving around for a good half an hour even though Tim swore the Tonner cottage was barely twenty minutes away.

“I swear”, he says as he turns left, “I will never take directions from Tim ever again.”

The path he’s driving now is… barely a road, really. Probably impossible to use after strong rainfalls. He looks out for any other cars or tractors, for anything bigger that might need more space than his little Citroen C3.

Even if he can’t find the right place on his own, there are probably people around that can help him. If he keeps driving those paths, there’s a high chance he’ll find someone. They have to lead _somewhere_ at least. And if not, there has to be someone in the village who knows how to give directions that even Martin understands. It can’t be this hard. This is his real life, not some kind of fairy tale where the place he’s looking for is magically guarded.

The thought sticks with him for a moment.

If this was a fairy tale, he would find something special at the end of his journey. A fountain of all knowledge, endless riches, a love to last forever. But there would also be a curse. Something to overcome, something to prove himself worthy. And what does he have to offer anyway? A Tupper box of sad baking mix brownies; no match for the sugar house the witch used to lure in Hänsel and Gretel. Wolfs stalk the loneliest, those wandering riddling paths, all alone, forgotten and lost in a world too big for them to survive in. A punishment for not being enough to love. Or maybe too much.

He marks his thoughts for later. Poetry – grey and dull – will grow from them later this evening when he watches fog roll through the streets like waves on a beach of asphalt. For now he has things to do. And the little house, that grew from the former far off shadow, seems to not have any fairy tale wardens to keep him from driving up.

When Martin’s car pulls up at the front, he nearly loses sight of the house. It is small, probably only one story tall, with a waist high wooden fence in a deep green. It looks, Martin has to confess, rather a lot like a witch’s home. Beautiful with flowers and herbs filling the garden and only leaving small stone paths to walk on. It’s not nearly warm enough for half of the plants to bloom, but the smell of spring, soft and growing, hangs over everything. Martin can barely imagine what the summer means for the entire cottage. Colours, probably. Explosions of colours carried on strong green stems. The house itself is not made of candy; it’s painted in a soft crème – it doesn’t reflect the light as badly as white would, but still sticks out from all the greenery in front.

Martin grabs his Tupper box, doesn’t bother to lock his car, and just steps up to the gate behind which the stone path directly to the house starts.

“Hello?”, Martin calls. There is no bell to ring, nothing to knock on except of course the fence itself. Still, he can hardly just enter, can he? It seems somewhat… rude.

“Is someone home?”

He receives no answer, even after the third and fourth time calling out. Maybe he’s not home yet? Martin doesn’t know when the school day ends, but surely before five in the afternoon. Even teachers have to come home in the evening. Right?

The gate isn’t locked. It swings open after Martin gives it the smallest push, no squeaking, no ominous sounds of rusted hinges, just a smooth movement of a well-oiled fence gate, opening up to a completely normal home. There were no inviting words, but Martin takes the gate’s silence as welcome enough. Armed with his Tupper box he makes his way through the garden.

From within, he can see that there is an order, some system to the way everything is planted. This is by no means just overgrown weeds, but he can’t make out what the system is. Something botanically important, he’s sure, he was just never particularly green fingered. Moreover, the garden is full, but not big in any measure. He reaches the front porch sooner than he expects and stumbles over an old pillow on the path.

It lies right in front of fresh green saplings, still dirty from the ground they grew from. Spade and garden gloves lie on top of it, staining the faded floral pattern with rich dark soil. Martin looks from the pillow back to the porch. It’s just two, three quick steps away. On the porch stand more pots with barely-there saplings, some bigger flowers, and (presumably) only seeds. They are in disarray with various garden tools strewn among them, and another pillow with the same (still faded and soil-streaked) pattern.

Martin steps over everything, carefully dancing around the pots and tools as to not mess up their… formation. If there is any.

This isn’t so bad, the garden is really pretty, the air smells like the promised new life spring brings, and maybe the brownies won’t be too sweet. Everyone else liked them well enough. So, with his box in hands and a friendly smile on his face, Martin knocks on the door.

And waits.

“Excuse me?”, says a voice to his right and Martin jumps and stumbles back, tripping over one of the pots and landing ungracefully on his back. He immediately jumps right back up.

“I’m so sorry!”, he starts before he’s even up. The box with sweets lies somewhere by his feet, but it’s not the priority right now. The flower pot was big and heavy enough to trip him without falling itself and Martin is grateful for it to spare him the embarrassment of destroying a stranger’s property after just walking into their garden.

“I am so sorry! I just… I don’t know! I’m sorry I didn’t see you there!”

He finally gets up again. His face is scarlet, the heat of his blush creeping down to his collar. _Stupid, stupid! I should have stayed at the gate instead of just waltzing in!_

“I’m sorry”, he says one last time before he finally takes in who is standing there. He regrets coming here immediately.

The mysterious man – Jon – stands not far off, just a little behind him on the right. The big watering can to his feet is full and Martin can easily trace spilled water from the side of the house to Jon’s current spot. Even from where he stands, Martin can see his dark skin is spotted with round pockmark scars that start on his face, his cheeks, and go down into his collar, stretching over his right arm to the hand there, where thick burn scars cover most of his palm. His hair is tied back in a loose ponytail and Martin sees grey strands intertwined with the rest of his brown hair.

All scars aside, he looks handsome in his own kind of young-but-grown-old-too-quickly-university-professor-look.

Maybe it was better for Martin not to remember him. He crushes easily on people, mostly on people he has no chance with, people too far out his league or too far away from him (as in actually physical distance) to maintain a relationship. Jon has something to him that lets a sign pop up over his head that says “Yes, that one!”. It has, Martin thinks, something to do with the way he looks a little too thin even for his height. Something to do with Martin’s immediate instinct to pick him up (and Tim wasn’t joking, Martin wouldn’t even break a sweat from lifting Jon) and wrap him in a blanket to shield him from whatever had scarred him like that.

Maybe he is the guardian of the witch’s garden, luring travellers in by just imitating their type perfectly.

“Are you… okay?” Jon asks after Martin’s babbling runs out and he stares at him for a long moment.

“Hmm? I am… oh! Yes! Sure! I’m mhm… I’m perfectly fine!” Martin nods. What should he do with his hands? Should he do something? Hold his sleeves? For another moment he just… stands there. A little awkwardly.

“Okay.” Jon’s eyes scan him. His gaze dissects him, cuts him open to look inside, turn him upside down and inside out to find the essence that is Martin, to examine that as well before there is nothing left to see.

“Yes”, Martin says again.

Jon’s eyes snap back up to his face. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Uhm…” He has, Martin notices, really nice eyes in a deep brown.

“Something wrong?” But he also has a very short temper if his voice is anything to go by.

Martin flinches back. “N-no! Nope, no, definitely not, no!”

“So?” Jon leaves his watering can alone and just crosses his arms in front of his chest. It doesn’t make him look any bigger or more authoritative, but he tries nonetheless.

“S-so?”

Jon sighs, he has a permanent frown on his face that leaves Martin feel the need to gain his approval somehow. Sasha was very right when she said he had a “teacher vibe” to him.

“Why are you here, Martin?”

“I… so, here’s… I mean…” Martin is about to stutter his way through more apologies and a drawn out thank you followed by more apologies for just entering his garden, but the soft nagging in the back of his mind makes him stop.

“How … how do you know my name?”

Jon raises one eyebrow. “You’re new here.”

“O-oh…?”

As if that explains anything. But Martin just… he can’t press him to answer. It’s not what he should do, he’s just here to answer, not to question, just to give up what is asked of him, but not to ask anything in return. Yes, it’s right, it’s better that way. So Martin waits for Jon to ask him something, to make sure he’s attentive (like the only child in a classroom with all eyes on him). Jon takes his time just looking at him, just taking in his posture, his face impassive except for that frown.

Then, once again, he sighs. His shoulders sag down, his eyes leave Martin once and for all. They take all pressure with them, leave him cold and barren, but he comes back to his own mind only barely noticing that something was wrong.

“Are you here to tell me a story?”, Jon asks. His voice is… different. Deeper, more there. It’s a physical object that forces its way through the air, grabs Martin’s head with sound alone.

He shivers. “I… no. I’m not. I have some… oh! Oh no!”

He’s _not_ holding the brownie box anymore! He must have dropped it somewhen between Jon startling him and him fumbling to get back up. Now, where is it?

“I dropped your…” Martin moves between the pots and tools, searching for his present with Jon’s attentive eyes in his back. “There!”

Martin finds it quite easily; it sits square in the middle of the flower pot he fell over. As soon as he has his box back, Martin holds it towards Jon for him to take it. But he doesn’t.

“What is that?” He looks from the box to Martin, brows knitted together in clear suspicion.

“It’s a thank you gift. You know? For the tea?”

“Yes… I remember.” He still doesn’t take it. “Why are you bringing this to me? What’s your reason?”

“My… my reason?” Martin’s arms are slowly getting heavier, but he refuses to pull back unless Jon outright declines his gift. “I wanted to say thank you. Because your tea really helped me. Usually, my headaches stay for a long while, but you… I mean your tea it… really helped. So…” He shrugs. “Thank you.”

Jon nods like he accepts Martin’s reason as legitimate and takes the box from him with another approving nod.

“You’re very welcome.”

“Yes. Uhm… thank you?”

“Really, Martin, I should be thanking you.”

“Right, yes, yeah… of – of course.” Martin rubs the back of his neck with his now empty hands. “And… and I guess you did. Heh. Yeah.”

They stand there in a long, uninterrupted silence. Martin fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt, while Jon, with the ridiculous blue Tupper box in his hands and a too big watering can at his feet, rocks back and forth.

“Right”, Martin says into the silence, but he doesn’t break it.

Jon clears his throat, he’s looking at something behind Martin, but not directly at him. It seems he’s avoiding Martin’s eyes completely.

“Any-anything else?”, he asks carefully. “Because I have…” He waves to the garden around them. “Things, you know? So is… is there anything else?”

“I…” _don’t know._ But he can hardly say that. Martin’s face is still warm, but at least it’s not burning anymore. “Thank you. I just… Is there… I mean I have… Sometimes my headaches just uhm… worsen? I don’t really know. If that happens, is there maybe a way to…” Martin repeats the waving motion Jon did just a moment before.

“To contact me? For more tea?”

“Uh… ye-yes?”

Jon hums, casts a long glance over the plants. Martin has no idea what he’s looking at. He still doesn’t know which herbs were in his tea, maybe they only grow in spring under a full moon in the half-shade of a weeping willow that’s at least three hundred years old. Or maybe they grow on the windowsill in Jon’s kitchen. Who knew? Martin most certainly has no clue.

When Jon looks back at him, he simply nods.

“There’s always a way, I guess”, he says.

 _Cryptic? Thanks?_ Martin doesn’t say anything else, just waits for Jon to continue, but Jon just looks at him with his constant frown.

“I’m sorry? Is there anything else?” With his burned hand he gestures to the path Martin took to the house. “You do know the way back, right?”

“I…” The flush Martin still feels on his cheeks deepens as he nods and hurries off the porch (without tripping over anything else).

“I’m sorry”, he says one last time before he dives back into the garden with his head low between his shoulders. Jon’s eyes are on his back the entire way, his stare presses in on Martin’s skin, like fingertips that put a little too much pressure into the touch to be comfortable. It’s a very different stare from Elias’, Martin notices at the edges of his mind. More like a curious cat that keeps its eyes on you, still a predator, but it means no harm.

He hurries without wanting to. The garden is beautiful, Jon doesn’t look like a serial killer (more like he tried to fight one off), but Martin still breathes a sigh of relief when he’s back in his car.

Alright. Jonathan Sims is clearly very nice to look at, but he’s a jerk to talk to. Or maybe first impressions are not his strongest forte and he’s just a little awkward. Or maybe he just doesn’t like Martin.

Understandable, really.

It’s kind of the witch’s part to keep outsiders away from their garden. Otherwise, Rapunzel’s mother could have had the rapunzels in the witch’s garden without payment, and then, of course, the would be no tale to tell, no princess to save, no price to pay. From his car, Martin can’t see Jon anymore.

_I wonder if he ever gets lonely out here._

Why do we never hear the stories of the witch? Why is it the princess that gets saved and never the witch who has to live with people raiding their gardens and homes? How did they come into possession of their witchcraft, their gardens, and candy houses?

Martin shakes his head. No, this is stupid. This is stupid! It makes no sense, witches are the villains, it doesn’t matter what happened to them. _Your life is **not** a fairy tale and Jon is **not** a witch, he’s just a random human, nothing more!_ Martin turns the engine on. If it was able to make a turn more forcefully then Martin would have done that.

Still. On his way back to the village, his thoughts stray back and forth from lonely quiet all around to the first beams of sunlight cutting through fog, painting everything golden.

♣

When Martin arrives at the local pub he spots Sasha and Tim immediately. They sit at the same booth they had last week with Martin. And just like last week, there are enough people around to keep up a lively atmosphere, but far too few to take up all seats or let the noise grow too loud for conversations. He might still be “the new one”, but the bartender nods to him in greeting and some sitting over their drinks look up to give him an acknowledging look before going back to whatever they were doing. Martin greets back politely, nods to people he doesn’t even know, let alone know their name. This is just what living in a village is like. People know you as “that new one who moved into old Mr. Harrows flat” even though Mr. Harrow hasn’t lived in aforementioned flat in years and died of lung cancer a few months back. You don’t live in your own bubble, you are absorbed by the village in your entirety and everybody knows you use the yellow yarn from Katelyn McKinley’s little arts and crafts store to knit sweaters.

Martin can’t find it in himself to mind. London was too big for any of that of course. He didn’t even know his neighbours’ names, didn’t see them unless he had to bring over a package he accepted for them. Nobody acted on the idea to bake cake and share it with everyone in the house just to introduce yourself. This, however, is better. Less lonely around here, he feels more seen, more there.

Not actually from Tim and Sasha, as they haven’t noticed him approaching them yet.

“All I’m saying is”, Tim says with his back to Martin, “that he needs to decide on which story he wants to tell.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. She has a half-finished glass of something presumably non-alcoholic in front of her, while the bottle in front of Tim is clearly beer. Some kind of exotic sounding cocktail would fit him so much better, but this isn’t the right place to order something like that.

“I don’t think he’s lying, if he just wanted attention a Prentiss sighting would do just as well.”

“Who’s lying?”, Martin asks before Tim can answer.

“Perfect timing!” Sasha slides further into the booth to make room for Martin. “Tim is making fun of a … what did you call it?”

Tim snorts. “A badly narrated Stephen King novel. Or the start of it I guess.”

“And that doesn’t compare to supernatural sightings in what way?”

“No, no, no, no, no. No!” Tim wags his finger at Martin. “Before we get into any more of that, you’re getting something to drink.”

“I’m driving.” But he doesn’t try to keep him from ordering another beer for Martin as well.

“One is still okay, we just have to stay here long enough that you’re sober again when we leave.”

He doesn’t protest any further, just accepts his bottle. Martin doesn’t like beer; no kind of beer has ever been his taste. It’s all just too bitter with a generally bad aftertaste. He drinks it, of course, has always taken one on parties or any other social gatherings that expect you to, he just doesn’t enjoy it all that much.

“So”, Sasha says, “care to tell us more about your bad horror movie intro, Tim?”

Tim slams his bottle down. “Absolutely. Martin, did you hear the news?”

“Uhm…” He doesn’t know many people yet, so his main gossip and news source is Tim, not counting the special price brochure for the only Lidl around that was in his mail this morning. “That rose scented soap is half the price this weekend?”

“Not really, but good to know. I was talking about”, the pause is for dramatic purposes, Martin is sure, “the ghost Finley MacMillan saw among the trees.”

“Presumably”, Sasha adds quickly.

“The _ghost._ ” Tim sets quotation marks in the air.

“Okay?” Martin doesn’t know Finley, he heard things about him from his neighbours (it’s hard not to in a village like this), but he has yet to meet him. “So he saw? What? The Grey Lady?”

“He saw nothing, I bet. But he _says_ he saw”, Tim pulls an annoyed face while he pitches his voice to imitate Finley’s, “A figure beckoning from the trees.”

“I mean”, Martin says, “it doesn’t sound that strange.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, but then he goes on how he found himself surrounded by fog, knee-high at first, then up to his waist until he couldn’t see anything besides white. And as he’s wandering around in the fog he finds himself closer and closer to the trees and there’s some rando waving him closer.”

“Still not that strange.” Martin shuffles his bottle back and forth on the table. There has to be something more to the story, something deeper.

“Guess the strangest thing was Finley actually.” Tim sips on his beer, unaware of Martin’s rising nervousness. “He looked around himself and tried to touch everyone he met.”

“He did look pretty sick”, Sasha says. “Maybe he had a hallucination from his fever. He was pale as a ghost himself.”

“Wait, you both saw him?”

Tim nods. “Sure thing, he came in here not long after us and told everyone who would listen that he just escaped death itself. Apparently, he stumbled through an entirely empty village for hours until he saw the light here.”

“That’s what he said?”

“Yep”, Tim pops the p.

“It’s still…” Martin chews on his lip for a moment, letting the story sink in. Was it really that far off for Finley to lose his way in thick fog and have the bad luck to only find his way back when the streets were deserted? Not really. After all, he himself had spent his afternoon driving around just outside the village without meeting another soul for a good while.

“But that’s not even the strangest thing!” Tim leans forward in his seat. “He says, he heard the sea. Something about constant waves following him around, and he couldn’t escape the sound, and everything smelled of salt water. There’s not even a puddle around, nothing that sounds like the sea.”

“O-okay?”

“So, I call bullshit.” He leans back again. “Sasha wants to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Because we read weirder stuff every day at work”, Sasha says. “And Tim just doesn’t want to believe him because Finley didn’t know if the fog was actually real and kept going back and forth with what he heard. It was either waves crashing against a shore or a ship’s horn, or maybe both, he doesn’t know.”

“Again, all I’m saying is that he needs to decide on what happened, then I might consider it.”

“You didn’t question him if it was another Prentiss sighting.” Her voice is exasperated, but somehow still fond underneath.

“Maybe Finley should come to us and make a statement”, Martin says. “Then we can figure out if there’s anything to his story.”

“Please, the locals don’t come to us, we’re Leitner.”

“Okay? Are you… I mean is there… somewhere else they’re going?” Martin hesitates for a second, but the thought he has is disturbing enough to keep him going. “Is there another… institution like Leitner’s? Somewhere else where people collect stories like that?”

For whatever reason, he doesn’t like that thought very much. He has no objections of his current workplace doing it, but there is a strange twisting in his stomach that lets all his alarms go off. Then again, how many people experience these kinds of phenomena? It can’t be all that much. They have hundreds of statements in their office, but more than half of those are clearly false sightings that come from drug or alcohol abuse, or very vivid imaginations.

To his relief, Sasha shakes her head. “Oh no, there’s no real institution behind it, just local legends. Any weird, occult or supernatural occurrences from around here go to Jon. Our very own herbal witch.”

“What? Why?” Martin nearly shouts, just barely manages to wrangle his voice down to something short of hysteric.

“Well”, Sasha draws the vowel out, “this is all part of the reason why the old Willison wanted Jon banned from teaching. People who saw something like the things we work with get nightmares, they have to live through the things they saw again and again until they lose their minds or disappear. We have statements about this, from friends and family of the victims after they tried to harm themselves to make the nightmares go away. So … it’s kind of a local legend.”

“That’s Jon.” Tim toasts to no one in particular, just upwards with his mostly empty beer. “If you tell your story to him he’ll give you some special herbal tea afterwards and you’re rid of the nightmares. For good. Everyone around here knows that, even if not everyone believes it.”

Martin stares into his own beer for a moment. Jon collecting stories makes an awful lot of sense actually. He asked Martin if he came with a story after all. It also explains why they only have the police records and official statements for the Prentiss case, and why it’s so hard for Sasha to pin down the Grey Lady appearance. It’s something locals see and bring to someone different than them. Maybe they should ask Jon for statements on all the stories he heard. But then again, he probably doesn’t remember them all. Even if barely three people each year come to him, it’ll be hard to retell their stories. Hell, Martin is sure he’d mix them all up. At his work he has them written down, it makes reading them disturbingly real, but it also makes coming back to them when he found a lead much easier.

“You talk about him” _a lot_ “like you know him well.”

“We’re somewhat friends, even if Tim sometimes still tries to flirt his way into his garden.” Sasha nods towards him.

Tim just shrugs. “He’s immune to my charm it seems. But didn’t you visit him today? How was it?”

“He was…” _rude, but helpful. Small and vulnerable, but still staring ahead, moving like a cat, too careful, too silent for me to hear._

“Yeah, that’s Jon. He’s prickly.” Tim reaches over to pat his arm. “He’ll warm up to you after a while, don’t worry about it.”

That’s not how Martin would describe him, but he sees how it fits nonetheless. He has more pressing matters to talk to Tim about.

“I nearly didn’t get to meet him at all”, Martin says. He pulls the crumpled sheet of Tim’s instructional fake-statement from his pocket. “I’m not taking directions from you ever again.”

“Aw what? No, no Martin, I give amazing directions.” Tim pouts.

“Mhmm. Then how do you explain…” Martin takes a moment to find the worst of Tim’s instructions and reads: “ _There’ll be a bush at one point with a small road that leads to nowhere in particular. Take the next road after that._ I think I didn’t take that one, I really don’t know how I managed to find him at all.”

“No way.” Sasha reaches for the paper and Martin hands it over. “ _If you come across another village, you went too far._ Tim, those are awful directions!”

Tim holds up both hands in mock-surrender. “ _I_ know how to find my way, all those things make a lot of sense, really. If followed correctly.”

“Yeah, but everyone else needs a Tim-programmed-navigation-system to find their way.”

“Everyone needs some more Tim-advice in their lives.” Tim combs his fingers through his hair, adjusting his new braids.

Sasha’s laugh is loud and open, and Martin hears himself laugh along. This is easy, this is nice, so much better than sitting in his flat, unpacking boxes, burning cakes, and writing poetry about fog and the longing for something out there, something more. This can be his more. Martin wants his more to be this moment, sitting in a pub with people he likes, people he already considers friends. It’s all so easy here, to forget that there are things out there that hurt and cut and burn. So Martin smiles. It’s not a fake one this time.

“Okay”, Sasha says, holding out one hand to Tim, “prove it. Give me advice.”

“Ohoho, you’re on Sash!”

Tim’s advice is… not helpful at all. He gives out mainly fashion advice and Martin already knows he’s not on good terms with high fashion with his preference to wear sweaters and shirts with cute designs or made of soft material that doesn’t irritate his skin. Then again, the way Tim talks about getting himself jorts just to annoy his brother who despises denim with a burning passion has Martin re-evaluate his opinion on Tim’s closet. Not by much, just by “definitely not the one to make the t-shirts for a bachelor’s party, but ends up “designing” them anyway, with some kind of pun printed on them in Comic Sans”. If Martin ever ends up in that specific situation, he decides, he will have Tim make them all shirts and ask him to wear his jorts for the entire day. Just a thought for a future maybe never to come.

This evening in the present however ends with Tim a little more drunk than Sasha and Martin. It’s not a surprise, Tim is the only one of them who doesn’t have to drive, but it gives Martin a fond sense of familiarity. He drives him home like he did the week before and listens to Tim’s tipsy babble about some holiday fling he had with a guy who lent him his flannel shirt and he then forgot to hand it back. He still owns it, it’s comfortable and has a very generic black and red pattern, practically one of thousand others that look the exact same, so no one is going to look for it. Right? Martin doesn’t need much convincing to stop Tim from inviting him into his flat to show him said shirt.

“I’m going to wear it on Monday!”, he says. “Remind me to put on my pickpocketed shirt!”

“I will”, Martin promises and with that he’s pulled into a long hug before Tim retreats into his flat.

He hopes he remembers himself that he wants to remind Tim of the shirt. Maybe he should write a note when he gets home. Just to make sure he made an effort. And he can finish the wedding card for his cousin tonight, too. Maybe even pick out a nice gift from their list that he can… well not run past his mom, but at least decide on and think over for a day before he buys it. It’s a plan, a nice, very well thought out plan. He will not think about the cold emptiness that awaits him at home, will not let his thoughts stray to the word alone ( _home_ ) how little it actually means. He had a great evening. It was a very productive, very nice day!

Martin is too deep in his thoughts to notice the coiling fog at the edge of his vision. It’s not too thick to obscure his sight, just washes over the streets. It parts for his car, but sticks to the wheels, clings to it like hands that reach up, pull and pull and pull down until he’s immersed in fog and coiling crashing waves of white mist all around him. The fog follows him when he parks his car in front of the house and climbs the stairs to the first floor flat he calls his home. It floods, slowly, but steadily, swelling like the tide on a beach of stone stairs. It reaches out but can’t grasp him. And while the white waves roll higher and higher, they never touch Martin. He cannot hear their singing.

At the top of the stairs, Martin fumbles for his keys. The hallway is dark, scarcely lit by a small window with milky white glass. The scare lightning is Martin’s only excuse that he turns right to his flat, finds the keys and only when he tries to unlock the door notices the bag that’s tied around the handle of his door.

He takes it off immediately, feeling the cloth between his fingers. The bag is handmade (badly sewn actually, Martin can feel the too thick thread holding the seam) and closed with a string of the same cloth.

Only when he finds the light switch an armlength from his door, he sees what else there is. He’s right with the fact that it’s a little bag, barely as big as his palm, but there is a note attached to it. In small clear letters, it says:

_Your tea, 5 to 6 minutes, don’t use boiling water. Jon._

Martin reads the words, then reads them again. For a long moment, he just stands there with the little bag and the note in his hands. He couldn’t keep himself from smiling even if he tried. In the back of his mind, some rational thoughts try to alert him that he should be a little freaked out about Jon finding his flat this easily, but this is a small village. Just ask around, it’s not that hard. If anything, it’s nice.

If anything, it has the fog retreat back, lets it die down, caught in the low tide of a failed claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it was not actually a witch who had the garden with rapunzels, but she had some kind of witchcraft going on, so I guess that counts?  
> I’m also playing with avatar powers a little (a lot). What else is canon if not the candy aisle I’m shoplifting from.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Next up: new field work, a (bad?) surprise, and Daisy's need to keep people safe


	6. How to live through a day full of surprises … badly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daisy’s need to keep people safe, a (bad?) surprise, and new field work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting closer and closer to the plot part ~
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who writes comments and leaves Kudos, you're the only reason I get these chapters done <3

Time is a funny thing. A routine has its fixed points that you check off like items on a to-do-list repeating itself again and again and again. So for Martin’s week he finds that his fixed points lie on Tuesday when he goes grocery shopping after work, on Friday morning when he calls his mom, on Friday evening when he goes out with Sasha and Tim (they became quick regulars at the pub, sometimes even Sarah joins them), and on Sunday evening when he realises that his mother won’t call him back. Everything in between these fixed points becomes somewhat of a blur. He still writes poetry and scolds himself for not unpacking all his boxes but resigning to just live here long enough to live out of them until they’re unpacked one tiny thing after another. But he writes his poetry whenever inspiration strikes, and rifles through his boxes on most of the days, so that doesn’t really qualify as a time marker.

Sometimes, Martin’s routine breaks. When he finds another real statement after reading through the detailed description of someone’s transformation from human to vampire (it was… very detailed. And not age appropriate. For any age, really.) by the turned vampire themselves. That one really marked his week as… weird. Or (more often than vampire fiction) when he makes Jon’s tea for his headaches. Three times in the last month.

Every time Martin woke up with a pounding head, and every time he drank it from a different cup. It’s the only detail that sticks out to him. Until now, he has used the chipped cup, the one with the handle glued back on, and the one with the faded pattern after he accidentally put it in the dishwasher twice. There are still two unblemished cups left. The sixth one is, of course, gone, lost to time and Martin’s forgetfulness. He wrote a poem about the cup.

 _It’s a metaphor_ , he thinks every time he remembers he wrote the sentence _Lost like a tea cup ripped away from its five identical companions_ unironically in a poem about loneliness. _Just a metaphor._

He can’t deny that he cried about it one evening after drinking his tea when his headache made him dizzy but didn’t hurt just yet. It wasn’t even his poem he cried about. Just the cup itself. He had a drawn out (even though one-sided) conversation with the other cups about them abandoning the lost one in their set, and if they missed being together.

He stopped talking to his cups after drinking Jon’s tea.

At work, there are some rumours that Leitner wants to split up the folklore department into smaller ones for each continent instead of having one for the entire world. But there are barely enough employees to fill all the existing departments, which can only mean one thing: people will have to change departments. Many of the demonology guys are concerned to be chosen. It has many of the researchers fuss a little.

Martin doesn’t worry much about it. Their department is understaffed already, so the only shuffle happening there will be people joining them, not leaving.

So Martin spends the next weeks establishing a routine and talking to a lot of people to upgrade his social status from “the new guy” to “the new guy who is actually nice”. It works out surprisingly well. Katelyn McKinley, who works at the family run arts and crafts store just down the street, told him to call her Katy just last week after a long talk about hats and earmuffs, and the pattern she used for her son’s beanie. He even befriended John the Baker whose last name is Robinson and not Baker. He is, however, a baker and shares Martin’s fondness for dark chocolate.

The last weeks were (even including the Fridays) better than the last seven years he lived in London. He likes living here, enjoys is work (most of it), and he considers Tim and Sasha his friends (he did try to be shy about it, but Tim added him to a group chat named “I need my friends to tell me which shirt to wear to a date” so he’s taking a wild guess that at least for Tim it’s a non-issue even though Sasha changed the name to “magenta is NOT a colour Timothy” after a long discussion).

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Everything working out for him is simply impossible. There has to be something bad that waits further down the road, something that’ll throw him off, leaves him in shatters and has him built himself up again from scratch.

That’s why he’s equally parts relieved and terrified when Leitner calls him into his office first thing Monday morning.

There are no other explanations, no words on why Leitner wants to see him at all, and Martin expects the worst. He always does. For the entire lift ride he goes over worse and worse scenarios in his head. Ranging from “your last report was a bit disappointing, I expected more from you” all the way to “I know you lied on your CV I have to fire you now”. The only good thing is that no sudden thoughts of being the only person in the building flood him.

It’s an overcast day, the air smells of rain. The village is enclosed in a coldness that seeps through Martin’s windows every night and leaves him turning the heater up and wearing sweaters over his shirts even at home. Spring took a step back in favour of leaving winter one last assault that killed the marigolds Martin had planted in a pot on the windowsill. And even here, in the foyer of Leitner’s office, with the straining library doors and the sofa made of meat and teeth, the clear cold persists. Martin is wearing a light jacket, most of his warmer clothes are still packed in suitcases and boxes in his flat.

He crosses the room as quickly as he can to knock on Leitner’s door and hear the echo of his knocking coming from the library doors in his back. This time, the yellow door on the windows is open. Not enough for Martin to see what’s behind, but enough to be noticeable. It’s a small detail, it doesn’t mean anything. Still, there’s a noise coming from it. Steps maybe, a voice, laughing. The sounds are too distorted to make out anything more concrete, and before they can swell and clear up, Leitner calls out, Martin opens his door and steps in.

Nothing follows.

“Mr. Blackwood”, Leitner says, unaware of the yellow door’s strangeness. “Please, take a seat.”

“Ye-yes, thank you.” Martin takes the same seat he always takes when he visits Leitner’s office; it’s always the chair to his right.

“I called you here because there is a new task for a man with your abilities.” Leitner puts both his hands on the desk in front. “I am aware that most of the statements you and your colleagues read are a little outdated.”

Martin nods. All of them, really. He has yet to find one from this year.

“However, just like you researchers, the scouts out there send me reports on the general area they found to be more… affected by the supernatural. Which means I have a broader view on the occurrence of statements that will come in over the next months. However, we cannot wait for them to arrive. The frequency of supernatural encounters – be they real or made up – in specific parts of the world always pointed to places with anomalies in history or geography as a thriving ground for the supernatural. But over the last few months this pattern has started to shift.”

He’s silent long enough for the pause to be dramatic but not long enough for Martin to say something.

“The different epicentres for paranormal activities are moving. We don’t have specific routes they take, it’s not like they’re leaving out clues for us to find. But the number of cases in former high frequency areas has dropped significantly. On the other hand…”

Leitner turns his computer screen to show it to Martin. On it, there is a map of the British Isles with needle points in and around a few named cities. The dots are coloured differently, but there is no colour key for Martin to puzzle out what the red dots mean in contrast to the yellow ones.

“This is the state of supernatural encounters from two years ago”, Leitner says. “It’s a very common distribution of encounters. Dense populated cities have higher but very different kinds of encounters than smaller cities.”

Martin nods again. Makes sense so far.

Leitner presses one key and the map changes. It’s still the British Isles, but now there are significantly more dots. Martin can’t find a predominant colour, but that’s not necessary anyway, the dots fill the spaces between the cities as well. The epicentres, as Leitner called them, are still the same, still have a higher count.

“The increase of encounters in this region”, Leitner says, “increased quickly enough for me to need to send more scouts from Europe and North America to different cities in England, Wales, and Scotland. Ireland is still mostly unaffected, but I suspect the increase there is yet to come.”

He turns the screen back to himself.

“And you want me to investigate this change?”, Martin asks.

“Partly, yes.” Leitner faces him again, his hands lie intertwined on his desk. “I see this as a special opportunity. The villages around us have stories of their own. Unfortunately, we have barely any data about them.”

 _Because they don’t bring their stories to us._ Martin doesn’t say it, just wonders where else there are villages or just parts of bigger cities where Leitner will never receive stories from, simply because some local legends give them an easier approach to the supernatural than a bunch of gruffy looking scouts that have them lined up in some small pop up shop and give a statement.

“I want you to investigate the cases from our immediate area. Unfortunately, some of your research has to happen on idle gossip alone, but there are some things we can’t control. I also was so bold as to prepare a list of names for you. Mainly people who had encounters with the supernatural… or well… presumably the supernatural.” He rolls his eyes. “Names and their phone numbers if you deem their stories more than just stories and want to invite them for an interview or have them write a statement.”

“Okay?” Martin frowns. “Should I… I mean if someone was actually willing to give a statement, would I hand that statement to the appropriate department or… or should I work on it myself?”

“There will be some changes to our internal structure in the next few weeks, so for the moment I’d appreciate if you worked on those on your own. Or with the rest of your department of course.”

“Yes, sure, alright.” _Is that all? Couldn’t he have… just written an e-mail?_

“Right, my assistant will mail you the details. I expect you to include these statements in your next report even if they don’t fit your department’s specialisation.”

“Of course.”

Leitner nods. He stands, and Martin hurries to follow. “That was all. Have a good day, Mr. Blackwood.”

They shake hands again before Martin leaves the office with a relieved sigh.

The yellow door is closed. There’s no handle, no keyhole, just the firmly shut wood (he hopes it is wood) of the sickeningly yellow door itself. No noises echo. But that doesn’t matter, Martin flees the room too quickly to hear them anyway.

♣

“Yes, I know there are a lot of police reports already.”

Martin gives an apologetic smile to Sarah across from him, who tries to read through some follow up notes Tim made on a still open case. She smiles back at him, nods to the phone in his hand and scrunches up her nose. Martin shrugs.

“Then you also know”, says the angry voice through the speaker, “that we don’t have anything to add to those!”

“Mr. Prentiss”, Martin tries again, “what happened to your daughter was”

“A tragedy. A fucking tragedy is what it was. I don’t want any of you esoteric freaks around here. You don’t get to make Jane some internet mystery for hobby ghost hunters.”

“I understand that you’re upset. But trust me, nothing you tell me about your daughter will end up on any ghost hunting blogs. Our own credibility would be at stake if we were to”

“Well then, read the police reports, I don’t see what else you want from me or my wife. Goodbye.”

“Please, I just” But he hangs up before Martin can say any more. He sighs into the speaker before hanging up himself.

“Not so pleasant I assume?” Sarah asks.

“Not really, no.”

He marks the name Prentiss with a red X on his newly printed out list. Maybe he will call them again when he’s done with the rest of the names and numbers, or maybe he will just leave it be. Mr. Prentiss was very right. It’s a tragedy to lose a child, they don’t need Martin to poke around even more.

“Do you need some help?”

Martin doesn’t look up from his list. “No, no, it’s okay. I’m just waiting for Sasha to come back from the archives with some old… uhm reports.”

“Reports? From around here?”

“Yes… uhm”, he scans his list for the right name, “reports from… Mary Willison. On witchcraft, ghost sightings, hostile insects, shapeshifters, and… uhm zombies?”

“Oh.” Sarah pulls a face. “Those are usually… fake reports. Or I guess “fake” is the wrong word. Mrs. Willison is just very paranoid. I wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to file a complaint on violent nymphs or something for the current weather. She sees something in anything.”

“As long as she’s willing to talk to me about her sightings, I’m willing to listen.” He waves the multi-paged list. “There are dozens of names on here. I just need to get some statements from some of them, not all, just some.”

“Who are the next few?”

“Erm…” He starts one name below Prentiss. “We already talked about Mary Willison, then Finley MacMillan, Maximillian McKinley, Allison Ashton – oh that’s a cute name – uhm… Evelyn Brown and – oh.” He stops for a moment, rereads the name, then he smiles. “Jonathan Sims.”

Of course Jon would be on a list like that. Of course. Martin huffs the smallest laugh. He barely knows him, only talked to him twice and both times Jon seemed rather rude. Still, he helped him out, went out of his way to bring him tea to his door. Over the last weeks, Martin sometimes imagined Jon just standing in front of his door. Knocking, waiting, then knocking again, just to learn that he wasn’t home at all. What would he have done if Martin had been home? Maybe come in for a cup of tea. Maybe tell him more about flowers. It’s of course all just fantasy. A conversation with someone he doesn’t know about things he has even less knowledge of. Dreaming about an idealized version of someone, a version that fits more his own needs for a relationship.

Martin does it often enough. There are some attractive men in the village he thinks about from time to time. He doesn’t expect anything to happen at all, there’s not that high a chance that they’re gay, but he can dream anyway. For the sake of his romantic streaks, the idea of a secret admirer leaving flowers on his doorstep until he catches him. It’s more the concept of falling in love with sweet little gestures, the intimacy of a first touch after dreaming about it for days on end. Yes, it’s the rush of falling, the moment not even a parachute can keep him from falling deeper for someone.

“That makes sense”, Sarah says.

Martin’s head snaps back up to her. “It does?”

She shrugs. “Sure, Mr. Sims is an elementary school teacher, he’s subjected to most of the gossip the P3 parents trade. Besides, teachers have their eyes and ears everywhere, not only because of their pupils. Maybe he knows which of these stories have some substance to them?”

“Maybe.”

Martin underlines Jon’s name with an orange pen. He has an assortment of different colours for his new task. Red for “unlikely to give a statement”, Orange for “possibly”, and Green for “just needs time and place”.

“But first I’ll call Finley MacMillan.” The names are sorted by how recently the encounter happened. And with leaving out Mrs. Willison’s frequent reports that come in every other week, Finley’s encounter with ghostly Fog with capital F is the most recent. He dials the number next to Finley’s name, his calendar and a notepad at his side for any important details.

“Do you really not want me to help you?” Sarah asks.

He shakes his head and mouths “it’s okay” just as Finley takes the call.

“Good morning, this is Martin Blackwood from Leitner’s investigative research centre for supernatural and occult phenomena. I am calling to ask if you would like to make a statement or give an interview on any supernatural encounters or occult practices you might have witnessed or experienced yourself.”

To Martin’s ears he sounds like a phone bot telling people to press this or that button if they called for X or Y.

“Ah”, Finley says, “yeah, nice of you to call, but like, I already told Jon… uhm like… oh geez, a week ago? Like a week and a few days, I guess. Anyway, yeah, I’m good.”

“Do you… would you be available to give your statement to us, too?”

“I mean…” He draws the words out. “I guess? I don’t really know how that’ll help you, though.”

“Anything you can tell us is helpful to our research.”

“In that case, I mean”, Martin can hear the shrug through his voice, “sure, yeah. Do I have to... like what do I have to do?”

“I can just… uhm…” He clears his throat. That was surprisingly easy. “Is there a day and time in the coming weeks when you’re free for an interview?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. There’s like Friday? Or wait I think I can make Wednesday work? But only in the morning. About like ten.”

Martin writes down date and time. “Perfect. I will be expecting you then.”

“Uhm. Yeah. I guess so?”

“Thank you, Mr. MacMillan, you’re helping us a lot with your cooperation.”

“Any- Yeah. Anytime. Bye then.”

“Goodbye.” Martin hangs up, grinning widely as he colours Finley’s name in green. The first one to go. The next one is Mary Willison. He accidentally skipped her name on the list, but she doesn’t have to know that, of course.

He dials her number next and waits for her to pick up. It shouldn’t be that hard to get her to agree to give a statement.

“Willison here, how can I help?”

“Good morning”, Martin starts his short monologue, “this is Martin Blackwood from Leitner’s investigative research centre for supernatural and”

“Ah yes, perfect, I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“You… pardon?”

“Yes, I kept sending you reports. You received them, I suppose?”

Mrs. Willison has the voice of a typical grandma that hands out self-baked cookies to all her grandchildren’s friends and all the children on her street. A soft sound that aged with the body it belongs to without ever losing its kindness.

“I… yes. Yes, we did. I’m actually calling to ask if you’d be willing to give follow up statement on some of the reports?”

“I am, yes. Is there a specific time you will come to interview me?”

“It’s…”

“Oh, Martin, dear, it was Martin, wasn’t it?”

“It’s… yes, yeah, it’s Martin.”

“Martin”, her smile echoes in her voice, “our knitting group meets up every Saturday. That’s me, Molly, Katy, Evelyn, and Sarah. But it’s Sarah Robinson, former Young. You’re lucky, this Saturday we meet at mine, so if you come a little earlier, I can tell you more and you can still come and knit with us. Katy told me you wanted to try that pattern she used for her son’s beanie?”

“I didn’t…” He clears his throat again just to buy some time. “I… maybe, I haven’t decided yet.”

“There’s no rush, dear. Just come over, if my girls have something else to talk about, I’m sure they can tell you all about it as well. I think Katy’s husband – you know Max? He’s such a sweetheart. Max saw, well, something. We don’t actually know, but yes, she can tell you about it, I’m sure.”

Martin nods even though she can’t see him. “That would be perfect, yes.”

“Great. We’ll see you on Saturday, then. It’s four o’clock sharp.”

“I… yes, of course, I’ll be there.”

They say their goodbyes and Martin is grinning when he sets the phone down. That was… incredible easy. He marks Mary Willison’s name in green, then draws a green arrow to Maximillian McKinley’s name. Four down only a million more to go.

“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be.” He collects his mug and holds out one hand to Sarah. “Do you want some more tea?”

“Oh yes, please.” She hands him her own cup and Martin makes his way to the small break room where he stores his own tea mixes. His co-workers seem to think he just uses high quality tea instead of the one from the same store they use. Their reasoning is easy: Martin makes the best tea they ever tasted, so he has to have some special high-quality tea leaves to brew with. For all his missing cooking skills, he is amazing with tea. It’s a skill he takes pride in.

He’s waiting for the water to boil when he hears Sasha and Tim entering the office through the other door. Well, it’s less hearing them enter and more hear Tim call “Guess who just got handed a ton of unnecessary files!” and Sasha elbow him with a quick “Tim!”. There’s the sound of fluttering papers and something flat hitting the floor. Martin doesn’t try to keep from chuckling. He just pulls out two more cups and reaches for milk and sugar.

This is his life now. He did not get fired, he can keep his little world he built himself over the last few months. Who would have thought? He already found a knitting group to join. Lead by a conspiracy theorist it seems, but a knitting group nonetheless. And Katy already likes him. Maybe he really will make that beanie.

Armed with four steaming cups of tea on an old tablet someone once stole from the cafeteria, Martin walks in on Tim mumbling to himself, picking up papers where they flooded the floor.

“Perfect timing!”, Sasha calls from her desk. “Martin, I found the files you need, they’re – ah, thank you – I put them on your desk.” She takes her cup and gestures to his desk, where a folder labelled “Willison” waits for him.

“Thank you.” He puts Tim’s cup on his desk when he rounds it to hand Sarah’s over, too.

“Thanks, Martin. I don’t know what I’d do without your tea.”

“You’d have to make your own, I suppose.”

He pulls the folder closer for a moment, just to flip through the first few pages. There’s a noise complaint about an alleged party someone threw with a police report stapled to it. Formerly stapled actually, the tacks were removed. Only someone without any knowledge of how archiving works would staple files together. Metal corrodes over time, and paper is an incredible fragile material to store. Too much light destroys it as quick as too high humidity; or too low humidity for that matter.

Martin closes the folder again. That’s a problem for later, when he needs to prepare for his interview with Mrs. Willison. And her knitting group.

“Who else is on your list?”, Sasha asks.

“A lot of people actually.” He holds the list up to show it has multiple pages.

“Oh that’s… Do you need help?”

He shakes his head. “I already know I won’t get through this today, I’m just going to spend tomorrow and the day after on the phone and in interviews. I just hope it doesn’t take more than two weeks. I’d rather not have the reputation of _the one who tries to get into people’s business all the time._ ”

“Well”, Tim calls from his spot on the floor. “It will take at least until Thursday, because tomorrow”, he shoots finger guns at Martin, “is pond day.”

“I…” Martin takes a moment if he forgot something important that happened in the last few weeks, something like the discussion of an upcoming celebration, but he can’t remember anything.

“What’s pond day?”

“It’s field work”, Sasha says. “There’s an old pond at the very edge of the village. It belongs to the garden in front of an old building that’s left to decay by its former owners. They moved and never sold the grounds, now they live who knows where and nobody really looks after it.”

“Melanie should look for ghosts there”, Tim says. He picks himself off of the floor, the flood (really just a little pond) of papers back on the stack he’s now carrying to his desk.

“There’s nothing really special about the building, Tim.”

“Then why are we looking into the pond?” Martin hesitates for a second there. “Because you think it could be the source of the unnatural fog that keeps creeping around?”

“Maybe, but that’s a little too recent. Our trip has been planned for nearly half a year now.”

“Then why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

Tim quirks up one eyebrow. “Wait, but it should be on your schedule for this week? Didn’t you bring it up then, Sash?”

“Wait”, Martin turns to Sasha, “is this the ominous “Keep your Tuesday hours free for an excursion” thing?”

“How is that ominous?”

“Okay”, he holds up both hands in surrender, “but what are we looking for? Something in the water there? Some pond creature that lures people in?”

“That would be sick”, Tim nods in appreciation, “but no. There was a sighting of something nobody was able to identify yet about a year ago right by that pond. And we have statements on depth and endlessness that involve formerly narrow spaces spreading out in all directions. A narrow pond in front of a half-decayed building would make an amazing hideout for something that does that.”

“Do we have any idea what it could be?”

“That’s why we’re going on a field trip to find just about anything. There’s still nothing. That’s why _we_ look into it and not the folklore guys.”

“Well, good to know? Would have been embarrassing if I had come in to work tomorrow.”

“Oh don’t worry”, Sarah says, “I’ll be here. The trip was made for the 2-9 team, that was before Leitner decided to break up the 1-9 team to remodel his departments.”

“Oh, but then you’ll be here all alone.” Martin immediately shifts into caretaker mode. He’s aware of it but can’t do anything to stop himself. If Sarah is all alone here the entire day, even if she goes home earlier, she has to sit here with no company and nobody to share her break with. Martin can hardly make her tea if he’s out hunting ghosts.

“It’s alright. I won’t be here for long anyway.”

“Besides”, Tim says, “Sarah already had her chance to bond with Sasha and me, but now you get it, Martin. Some quality bonding time!”

“Over dirty old ponds?” Martin isn’t sure if he can ever be that excited about possible supernatural findings.

“I like to think of it as an opportunity to get out my most stylish wellies.” He grabs his shirt with both hands. “They go with my jacket.”

“They don’t”, Sasha says. “But don’t worry, Martin. It’ll be fun. And Tim will invite us for drinks afterwards.”

“Wait, I will?”

“Great!” Martin grins. “Then I will put my phone calls off for tomorrow. But I still want to go through a few for today.”

Sasha nods. “Sure thing, go for it.”

“Need a hand or another mouth to talk?” Tim asks as he passes him on his way to his desk.

“No, it’s alright.”

Martin is very aware he has some problems with accepting help. He went his entire life trying to be the helping hand others needed that the moment he is on the receiving end, he simply can’t accept it. The little voice in his head tells him how much of a failure he’d be if he did, how right his mom was every time she went off on one of her tirades. And Martin can’t stop himself from agreeing. How can he help others if he needs help as well? Who else will reach out to those who need it far more than him? Who, if not him, will be the someone to care for … everyone, really. He’s a bit of a hypocrite there. But over what was left of his childhood, Martin learned the number one most important coping mechanism of adulthood: to ignore pain that runs too deep.

So Martin ignores the twinge of guilt for just wishing he could hand some of his work over to Tim and only have to phone half of the list, instead he dials Jon’s number. He’s not really the next name on his list, but he’s the next one that he knows and has spoken to (twice even) from face to face.

“Sims’ household”, says a female voice when the call is picked up.

“Uhm…” Martin wasn’t aware that Jon lived with a woman?

“Who’s there?”

Her voice is demanding, not shouting, not even aggressive, but there lies a dormant danger to it. Martin knows she can’t see him – this is a phone for goodness’ sake – but he goes very, very still. He should say something, anything, greet her, rattle off his introduction.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t want to. If he speaks, she will know he’s here. She’ll fixate on him, finding her prey in his hasty movements and trembling breaths.

“If this is some kind of prank, I swear…”

“No!” Martin nearly squeaks. Oh no, no, oh no, he wants her to think that even less.

“Who is this?” Her voice cuts the silence, dissects it, not methodically but with the precision of someone who has opened bodies before, and _broke them_ more than once.

“This… I… It’s… Is Jon home?” He immediately regrets the question.

“Why? What do you want from him?” Sharp like a knife’s blade.

“It’s…” He takes a deep, grounding breath. It’s okay, he’s okay, he can get through this conversation like the mature adult that he is. He just needs to tell her his name and the reason for his call, and then he has to never meet her. Ever. That’s an amazing plan. Now, if his nerves could maybe stop setting him on edge, that’d be great.

“My name is Martin Blackwood”, he says, his lip quivering, waiting for the attack, he barely manages to _not_ look over his shoulder, “from Leitner’s investigative research”

“Why are you calling?”

It’s really not a question. A demand if anything. Martin’s voice grows silent at the end of his not even half-finished introduction.

He clears his throat. Right, back to script. Then he can blame the script if he says something she doesn’t like.

“I am calling to ask if you would like to make a statement or give an interview on any supernatural encounters or occult practices you might have witnessed or experienced yourself.”

There’s a long pause in which Martin isn’t sure if she hung up or not. He doesn’t hear the tell-tale clicking, but interrupting this silence? Giving her more opportunity to talk to him? No.

“Why are you calling _Jon_?” It’s not a new question, rather a clarification on her previous one.

“I’m calling everyone”, he lies. “There’s no system to it.”

From across Sarah makes a questioning face, but Martin just shakes his head.

“Why do I know your name?”

Oh now that sounded too accusatory for Martin’s liking. How is he supposed to know that? Maybe people in the village gossip about the new guy, which is – surprise – him.

“I just told you a second ago.”

She growls. Martin shrinks back in his chair, keeping very still, breathing very, very quietly. From the other end, he can hear some rustling of fabric, then voices he can’t make out and incomprehensible words.

Just as he thinks about simply ending the call without any further ado, she comes back.

“You’re the brownie guy.”

“I’m the what?”

“Jon told me about you. You are that weird guy who gave him those brownies.”

“I… yes? I guess I am?” He’s not sure what to say to that. “Does that mean, he’s there? Would it be possible for me to talk to him?”

“He’s here, alright.” There’s a voice in the background. Martin can’t understand what is said, but it must be Jon. “But I don’t think I like you talking to him.”

“I… what?”

“Those brownies. Who told you to give them to him? And what did you put in?”

“I… I mean… baking mix? Really, you can buy the stuff in every Lidl?” He’s being interrogated. He knows. Her voice is strict, leaves no room for him to refuse his answer. Or maybe it does. However, it carries the underlying promise of pain if he tried.

“You’re dodging the question.” Her voice grows sharper, drops deeper. “Who sent you?”

Every word is deliberate. She speaks slowly, carefully; her voice the howl of a hunting animal, daring its prey to make the first move, to jump at its sight and start the chase.

“Nobody”, Martin says. He’s breathless, his tongue sticks to the top of his mouth. There’s a cup of tea in his reach, but to grab it, to drink from it, will be what starts the chase. He cannot walk away from this.

“Nobody”, she repeats, and it’s a lie when she says it. “Of course. It’s always nobody.”

“I… I don’t” _I don’t know what you want me to say._ He’s not quite brave enough for the words.

“You don’t know. Nobody ever does.”

Martin breathes. It’s all he can concentrate on right now. All he knows is how loud his breathing sounds, it’s a thunderclap every time he inhales, every exhale its echo.

“Listen up.”

Martin holds his breath all at once. He’s attentive, he’s going to run, the moment he has a chance, the moment she turns, she can’t find him if he’s quick enough, if he hides cleverly, if he…

“I’m not someone, who gives the benefit of the doubt, okay? But Jon does want to speak to you, so here’s one warning:” She must be bearing her teeth, there’s no other way. Ready to jump, ready to tear apart and bite and claw and _hunt._ “Don’t fuck with my family. If that’s what you’re up to, you can go right back to the net you crawled out of. Are we _clear_?”

“Crystal clear. Yes. Of- of course.” She could have laid out her threats in Russian for all he cared, he’d still have agreed.

“Good.” Her voice holds all that Martin is in that moment. One scream and he breaks, bleeds out from wounds carved into his skin by words alone, by the violent promise of pain in her voice.

There’s more fabric rustling, voices, Martin doesn’t dare to breathe in too deeply. The attention is still on him, he’s not _safe._ Every involuntary movement can draw her back.

“Hello? Martin?”

Martin breathes in deeply, greedily, as he hears Jon’s voice. She’s gone, she can’t see him anymore, can’t hear him. So he breathes and sags down into his chair a little more as all the tension leaves his body. His muscles are stiff already, not yet cramping, but an annoying burn itches with the memory of tensing up and holding out without a way to escape.

“Martin, I am so sorry, Daisy has always had a certain… effect on people. I tried to make her hand the phone over, but I’m only… well, me. Really, I’m sorry.”

“It’s… it’s no problem, Jon. It’s okay.” His voice is hoarse. Of course it was a problem, but he’s not about to discuss it with Jon. Not with the curious glances Tim keeps throwing his way, and the polite ignorance Sasha plays next to him. He notices only now that she stopped filing.

“Are you sure? You don’t sound okay.” At least his voice isn’t accusing. Rather neutral, actually. Martin _thinks_ there’s a spark of concern underneath, but of course, he just sat through the most terrifying phone call in his entire life (and yes, including that time he called his crush in high school), so he doesn’t trust his judgment.

“Yes, no, I mean… I… I will be, surely, it’s not like… she actually… I mean murder is still illegal.” His voice doesn’t tremble anymore, it’s still far from steady, but he counts it as a win anyway.

“You have nothing to worry about, Martin. Daisy just… has a strong erm… need to protect … her friends.”

“Sure, I’m – I – yes. Totally understandable, yes. Uhm anyway…”

“Yes! You called because of… I don’t… don’t know actually, she didn’t tell me.”

“Right!” Thank god for the script! “I’m just calling to ask if you maybe would like to make a statement on supernatural encounters. I work for Leitner.”

_Not the script, but good enough._

Jon hums on the other end. It’s easier, far more relaxed now. Martin is still a little tense, but not like taunt rope fraying on its weakest point ready to snap any second. There’s just… something in the back of his mind that keeps him from easing up any more.

“I suppose there are some … pointers I can share. Some people who might be willing to retell their stories.”

“I, yes, that’d be perfect!”

“Alright, then what do you say we sit down on Wednesday?”

“Around this time?” Martin takes one look at his calendar and sees Finley MacMillan’s appointment, but he has no time to correct himself, as Jon speaks up before he can.

“Unfortunately, I usually work around this time, you’re incredible lucky you called when you did, I was just about to leave. My class had a – let’s call it creative workshop with the Primary 4 together.”

“Oh, uhm, sorry then, I didn’t want to keep you this long. Let’s just say… uhm” – Martin does not know when the school day ends for elementary schools – “four o’clock?”

“I suppose four will be sufficient.”

“Perfect, yes, well, see you then, Jon.”

“Of course. Goodbye, Martin.” Martin can’t see him, but he expects him to nod.

“Yes, bye.”

The pressure in his back retreats the moment Martin hangs up and puts the phone back down. Only the absence of the slightest prickling in his neck proves that this conversation really happened. It was an experience if nothing else.

Martin notes down Jon’s appointment, then has the phone back at his ear before Tim can ask him anything about the previous call. Instead he has to listen to Martin rattling off his introduction call after call after call and crossing out names in red and green (it’s mainly red if he’s honest). By the end of the first page, Martin managed to relax a little more. His shoulders don’t hurt anymore, but when he stretches there’s still a distinct tension waiting to tighten to a cramp.

Today, he will most definitely not take any statement home.

♣

_So I sit broken ~~in parts~~ apart_  
_My embraces all too sharp_  
_My hands in search of silken light_  
_~~Flailing, slipping, featherlight~~ _  
_Blocking ~~out that is too bright~~ and searching all the same_  
_Trapped in the fog’s claim –_  
_it feels too right._

Martin stares down, all but forcing his words to either make more sense or to present him with better options. The words, however, ignore him completely.

He’s sitting in his new office on his new desk from the second-hand shop in town. The “town” is a glorified village, really. There are two schools instead of just one, one sports bar (a pub with a bigger TV screen), hotels for the swarm of tourists each year (but no cottages to rent), and aforementioned second-hand shop. For a new desk, he’d have to drive two villages over to the next bigger city. But Martin likes the desk.

It’s made of dark wood he can’t identify, has two drawers at both sides each and stands steady. And that’s really all he wants. Besides, the desk has a backstory. It had a life (insofar as a desk can have a life) before it came to Martin. It has a story that Martin will never know, it’s full of secrets. He finds it inspiring.

Then again, inspiration is what he needs the most right now. The desk isn’t really helping. All he can do is trace a line of ink stains that stand out darker against the wood until his phone starts buzzing next to him. It’s Tim, he knows it has to be Tim. Unwillingly, Martin started a discussion in their group chat about shoes and appropriate footwear. Sasha is sure they won’t need any special shoes for tomorrow’s pond field trip, just whatever they’re comfortable in wearing for an entire day. Tim on the other hand can’t believe that Sasha “betrays him like that” and is adamant that sneakers will not be appropriate. It spiralled a little out of control when colours and pattern came into it as well. So the buzzing can only mean one thing: the discussion is not over yet.

Martin ignores it as best as he can, which means he stares at it for a few seconds before picking it up. He is curious where the discussion went while he worked on his meagre attempt at poetry. Besides, he has to make dinner soon, so this is a welcome break. He stands from his chair and grabs his phone, ready to head over to the kitchen.

When he turns it to click the display on, he sees it’s not actually a string of text messages, but a call. And it’s not even Tim calling him.

An unknown number flashes across his screen. Martin doesn’t recognise it. The area code is from within the UK, but he can’t puzzle out anything else. Well, whoever is calling him, is calling via their mobile phone, that’s about everything. And Martin is fairly certain that there’s no one around, who he gave his phone number to that is not already in his contacts by now.

His finger hovers over the decline button.

What if it’s someone who wants to reschedule their meeting with him? This is a small village, it’s probably not that hard to find out phone numbers if you ask the right people. Then again, it’s already nearly eight in the evening. Who has nothing better to do than to call Martin at 7:48 in the evening? Or maybe they have the wrong number. Easy explanation. Martin should answer then. If they have the wrong number, he can just tell them his name and they’ll realise immediately.

His phone is still buzzing, the caller seemingly very persistent in his need to call… whoever.

Martin takes the call.

“Martin Blackwood here”, he says, fully expecting to be hung up on or greeted by stumbled apologies.

There is silence for a second. In the background, Martin hears shuffling, movement, cars. Then…

“Is this… uhm… hello?” The voice is not quite hoarse from overuse after screaming too loudly, but rather rough like a man’s voice after years of cigarette use.

“Who is this?” Martin asks. He doesn’t recognise the voice.

“Is this”, the man repeats. His voice is still rough, but there’s something lighter in it, too. “Is this Martin Blackwood?”

Martin hesitates. “It’s…” _It’s too late, I took the call with my full name._ “Yes. It is.”

Static fizzles as the man breathes out audibly. “I… it’s… It’s good to hear your voice, you know. It’s… you sound good. Yes, I… I’m sorry, you don’t even… I’m… yeah…”

“I’m sorry?” Martin isn’t so sure what to say to that. “Who is this?”

“It’s… this is…” He takes a deep, shuttering breath. The noise of the street, only dull in the background, is all Martin hears for a heartbeat before the man continues: “This is Harry, I mean… it’s… it’s Dad…”

Martin stares. The ink stains stare back.

“I mean… yeah… this is me, heh. I… I’m glad you… you know? Took the call? I wasn’t…. not, not really sure…”

Martin’s heart jumps all the way into his throat. He tastes it on his tongue, forgotten, long closed off, a word he never really spoke. An insult, really, soaked with bile and disappointment, all more poisonous than hate.

“I wanted… to call sooner, you know? Because it’s already so late… in the, the evening. Dinner time and all that. But I… wasn’t… I didn’t know if… if you would answer? But yeah… you… you did.”

“Where did you get this number?” It’s not the first thing Martin wants to say just the first thing he can.

“Oh…” His father’s – _His Father_ – rambling comes to an abrupt halt. “I… I found one of your, your articles. I have… one of my colleagues, he likes your magazine. I uhm called there.”

“Oh.” Martin says nothing else. Just stares at the ink stains and the ink stains stare back.

“So you… you work in London?”

“I erm I used to. Just moved actually.”

“Oh… then you… where, where to?”

 _Why do you want to know? Why should I tell you?_ Martin doesn’t ask, just answers as briefly as he can.

“That’s, it sounds nice, Martin. I’m… I live in Coventry these days. It… I mean it’s a while from here to there.” He laughs. Even his laugh is rough.

Martin finds himself grateful for the distance between them. He’s not sure what he would have done if his father had lived two villages over. Just stare ahead, probably.

“Listen I… this is nice. I, it’s nice to hear your voice. I’m… yes, I’m glad that you’re well. You are well, right?”

“I’m fine, it’s nice here.” Martin hears himself speak more than he actively does it.

“Good, that’s good. I, I’m glad.”

Martin wants to ask him why he’s calling, if he wants money from him. He wants to ask where he has been for the last twenty years. Wants to tell him to go fuck himself for abandoning them – him.

He doesn’t.

“Martin, I thought… I’m glad I found your number. I… I think we can maybe one day meet again? See each other again. We are, I mean I would like to see you again. I missed you. Really, it was… uhm not, it’s really… it was hard. I want to, you know, try again. With us. As a new… a new family maybe. We’re both in, obviously we’re in different places now.” He laughs again. This time, his voice shakes.

“Er, y-yes. Yes. Sure. Why not.” There are a thousand reasons why not. He still says it.

“I… really? Great, yes, thank- thank you, Martin. I…” His smile is audible in his voice. Martin wants to wipe it off of his face. “It was good. Good talking to you. Maybe we, we can schedule something? And then, yes, that’ll be nice.”

 _Really? Will it really?_ “Mhm.”

“This was uhm a great chat. I’m… I was nervous, calling you. I’m glad you… I’m glad I heard from you.”

“Yes.” _But are you? Or are you really just glad I’m not screaming and yelling and making a scene? Is that why you just called? Because if things don’t work the way you want them with me, you can just hang up? Just walk away like you did all those years ago?_

“Then I’ll catch you later, Martin. I’m, if you want to call or, or text I’m… this is my number, you can… you know, just text.”

“Yeah, I…” _What? I will? But I won’t, not really. I can just sit it out and wait for him to lose interest again and he will walk away. Again._ “Yeah.”

“So I’m uhm. Yeah. It was, it was good chatting. Yes. Uhm. Good-goodnight then, Martin. I’m… goodnight.”

Martin nods, forgetting that his father can’t see him. The ink stains stare back. Dark and steady. “Goodnight then… goodnight.”

His father is the first one to hang up, while Martin still stands and stares, his phone in one hand. The other hand is curled around the chair in front of him. He’s holding on too tightly, with a grip that makes all his knuckles stand out. Letting go will hurt when all the blood rushes back and his muscles can relax again. But Martin doesn’t let go. He just holds on. It’s all he can do to keep his balance, to keep himself up.

 _I missed you._ Such little words for such big lies. Such ugly truths for such pretty words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing things like "you're lucky" in my fics because no, you're not really, but your writer thinks you deserve a little luck anyway.
> 
> Next up: magic ponds, Jon's very distinct teacher vibe, and whisky


	7. How to find the deep secrets of ponds … and elementary school teachers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whisky, Jon's very distinct teacher vibe, and magic ponds
> 
> or alternatively: the chapter that was supposed to be finished like three days ago, but responsibilities kept Clubs from writing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of drowning and claustrophobia (about one paragraph); alcohol (more than in the other pub scenes)

Tim’s wellies are hot pink and do not go with his jacket. Which doesn’t mean they don’t suit him. Really, Martin already suspected Tim might be one of those people who can just wear about anything and still look good. Now, he has proof. Everything does look good on him. Save for a potato sack maybe, but there’s a decent chance Tim could find a way to style it up by just being _Tim._

Of course, Tim notices him first. He's leaning against the fence separating the garden and the street, already discussing something with Sasha, who wears her usual work attire just like Martin. And of course, because he’s Tim, he opens both his arms when Martin joins them.

“Martin! Perfect timing! Let’s have an honest evaluation of this entire setup. On a scale of one to ten, how spooky is it?”

_A little,_ Martin has to admit. The house looms over them, barely two storeys tall, but its shadow still creeps towards them, desperate to reach out and grab their feet. Birds flutter in the caved in roof, here and there Martin sees the truss stick out like the ribcage of a decaying body. The house itself is dark, gloomy from the loss of life within its rooms. Windows like still staring eyes watch them, wait for them to come closer, to step through the closed door, to open it to the abyss that awaits them inside. The garden leads from the front door to the little fence they’re standing at. It’s overgrown with weeds and thorns choking the flowers underneath. From where he stands, Martin can only just make out what he supposes is a pond.

“Uhm… maybe four spooky”, he says.

“Oho, seems we need to step up our game if we want to scare Mr. BigCity here.” There’s no true malice behind Tim’s words and Martin takes them with a smile.

Sasha, on the other side, has a form for him to sign.

“Just a formality”, she says. “It’s for Leitner to know how many of us were here and how many came back. We’re not expecting for any of us to go missing, but again, just a formality.”

“O-okay?” He signs underneath Tim’s name.

“Perfect!” The forms disappear into her bag. “First things first: We all read up on the materials about this place?”

Tim and Martin both nod.

To be fair, there was not much to read about. Mostly teenagers breaking and entering, testing out the law more than the patience of possible ghosts. However, there were a few “sightings” of barely credible origin. Some drunkard stumbling around, telling people about see-through figures, shades moving like echoes from far away. Or some of the newlyweds staying at the cabins and stumbling through the village after dark, staring up, pointing out stars. Drunk on each other rather than alcohol, they find this corpse of a home and hurry forward, fleeing from eyes that stare back at them from the pond, unsure if they belong to something in the water or if they are just the reflections of the stars. Two or three of the braver teenagers came back with itchy red rashes around their ankles, claiming hands had rapped around their legs, pulling at them to feed them to the hungry abyss in the pond’s waters.

“Do we have our equipment?”

“Yep”, Tim says. Martin just nods, mentally going through all the things the storage employees shoved into his and Tim’s hands yesterday.

“Perfect.” Sasha claps her hands. “Then, let’s go.”

And she leads them through the gate and to the pond. True to the surrounding spookiness the hinges squeak as they open it. The sound is just loud enough to add to the feeling of playing a role in a bad horror movie. Martin is not a big fan of those, he enjoys documentaries (he has a special soft spot for those about big spiders that just look too cute for their own good) and maybe a cute romance, if the mood strikes. His last boyfriend had an affinity for horror movies and Martin sat through quite a few, so he can confidently say that No thank you. Not his taste. It’s not even about the stories themselves (even though they, too, blur into each other rather quickly) but about the characters. Why take the call after clearly establishing there was no service? Why run upstairs even though the front door is open? Because the genre dictates.

The pond, of course, follows the example of its surroundings.

“Oh wow”, Tim says, squatting at the pond’s edge, “it’s like the setting of a Stephen King novel.”

Kneehigh grass and deep purple thistles surround them, dipping their leaves into the water, breaking the surface only just. The pond itself is deep grey, barely disturbed by the morning light spilling over the garden. Nothing in it moves, it lies there as still as a mirror, and Martin sees his reflection in it.

“We can start with all the easy stuff”, Sasha says. “EMF, Geiger counter, just pictures and recordings in general. After those we can decide if any further investigation is necessary.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Tim sets his backpack down on high growing grass. “I say we start with EMF because the infrared camera takes a billion years to set up.”

“Alright, then I’m setting up the tape recorder, everybody shut up”, Sasha says. She presses record on the first of several tape recorders they brought. “Sasha James recording the findings of field test 60078 of team 2-9 of research floor S. All photographs are labelled as 60078/29/4. Part of the excursion are researcher Tim Stoker and parapsychologist Martin Blackwood. We begin with measuring electromagnetic fields surrounding the test object.”

She clicks it off again.

“Here”, Tim says, “is our EMF metre. Martin, do you have the compass?”

“I, yes.”

He holds it up for them to see, but Tim isn’t looking anymore. Instead, he crouches down again, holding out the handheld EMF metre over the pond.

“Ready?”

“I…” _I don’t know what we’re doing?!_ Martin nods.

“Let’s go, Sash!”

Sasha switches the tape recorder on again, while Tim moves the EMF metre over the water as far as he reaches. Martin, because he has nothing else to do, watches the compass which… doesn’t do much.

“No readings”, Tim says. “We’re moving around the edges.”

He does as he says, and Sasha follows with the tape recorder. Martin stares down at his compass.

“Yes, nothing new with the compass either.”

What follows is an entire hour of moving up and down the pond, its surroundings, and Sasha trying to keep Tim from taping their equipment to a stick to hold it over the very middle. Martin’s compass keeps as still as any compass would when it’s carried around. The pond has no clear electromagnetic fields for them to record. After a few quick pictures, they leave it be, moving on to the Geiger counter Tim has in a second extra bag. The lab guys lend their equipment, but they are peculiar with its transport. Maybe because they see the supernatural and strange day for day.

“Why do we only record with tapes?”, Martin asks before they turn the Geiger counter on.

Tim sends him a funny look. “Because the supernatural just distorts all digital data.”

“Yes, of course.” _I knew that, of course._ “But I actually mean, why don’t we use cameras? I mean maybe old video cameras?”

“Oh yes.” Sasha takes a picture of the pond in the brighter light of the morning. “We used to have camcorders, but while the audio was okay, the video material wasn’t. There are still old recordings in the archives of someone trying to catch a ghost, but the material is completely black. It’s like they recorded in darkness and afterwards, no matter how often we changed the tapes, the camcorder only recorded darkness. As if the dark itself sept into it and made it impossible to see anything more.”

“And that happened… every time?” Martin looks back. The pond lies still, only disturbed by the leaves that break the surface and the vibrations of their footsteps.

“Not every time.” Sasha positions the camera. “Martin, can you hold the compass up, just – yes, perfect! Thank you. But to answer your question.” She holds the picture against the light then shakes it, waiting for it to dry. “It’s not always just… blackness. We had a case of a shapeshifter, who appeared to be stealing skin. Problem was, the second the camera found them, you can clearly see that what to human eyes looked like perfectly normal skin, looked like a too big suit on the footage. There were clips and tacks all around the softest parts of the body. But from then on, every time the camera filmed skin in any way the video became grainy and the skin bulged around everybody, even if we could prove it was not a shapeshifter.”

“Oh…” Martin swallows every other word on his tongue.

“Did you never try to film it yourself?” Tim asks. He’s ready, only waiting for Sasha to click the tape back on.

“No, not really. I mean…” Martin shrugs. “Of course I knew ghosts don’t show up on digital cameras, but I… well I never had a camcorder to try it out with.”

“Do you want to?”

“What?”

Tim motions to Sasha. “Do you want to record?”

“Oh, what, no, I wouldn’t, no, I wouldn’t really know what to say!” He fiddles with the sleeves of his jumper. “Next time maybe.”

“No, don’t worry, you can’t make any mistakes here, it’s very easy. Just say… uhm…” He waves to Sasha again. “What do you usually say?”

Sasha rests her hands on her hips. “You mean”, her voice drops lower, sounds far more serious all of a sudden, “Audio recording by Sasha James, Supervisor and Researcher of the department for general apparition and transformation.”

“Yes, that exactly.” Tim grins. “No seriously, Martin, just click it on and say something like… I don’t know? Moving on to Geiger counter? Or Geiger readings, something along those lines.”

“I don’t…” But Martin has no chance to finish, Sasha already hands over her recorder, ready to switch their tool on.

“Ready?”

_No!_ “…yes, okay.” He clears his throat, then he switches on the tape recorder. “Uhm, re-recorded by Martin Blackwood. We will… uhm, now we go, we go over to the Geiger counter. After the EMF. Now.”

He holds the recorder closer to Tim and Sasha as they switch it on. The characteristic crackling sounds fill the air as Tim moves his hand and the little device all over the same places they used the EMF metre on. It crackles, but the rhythm barely changes, at least not enough for definite proof of something… well of anything, really. It takes another hour of searching and not finding anything before Sasha grabs Tim’s arm and leads it closer and closer to the water.

“There’s something”, she says, her hand still on Tim’s arm. “Do you see it? Tim, can you stretch out further to the centre?”

“What did you see?”, Martin asks.

“I don’t know yet. But there’s something in the water. Can’t you see it?”

Martin stares into the deep blackness the pond presents. Small waves break, leaving the floating leaves washed ashore just beneath the drowning blossoms of too eager flowers, choked by the roots of the plants around them.

Tim pulls back. “We’ll take a couple of pictures. Best if you take them yourself.”

Sasha nods, biting her lip, still searching the shallow depth that won’t even reach Martin’s waist.

“Martin”, she holds out one hand, “you can stop the recorder, we’ll start up again later when we have something to report. Hand me the camera?”

“Yes! Sure!” He clicks it off and sets it down, grabbing the polaroid camera in the process. “What did you see?”

Sasha takes the camera from him. “I don’t actually know.” She takes a picture of the pond’s surface from straight up, then leans further down to try a different angle.

“It looked not really like anything, just was… it was just a feeling of something more.”

“Something more?”, Tim repeats. “As in more depth than it should have?”

“No.” She takes another photo. “More like an expectation.”

“Of?”, Martin and Tim say in union.

Sasha takes one last photo, nearly lying down flat on her stomach. “Of something reaching up.”

Her words follows a silence, far deeper than the pond. No hands reach up, no face comes into sight, but Martin can’t keep himself from imagining what if.

He is a little claustrophobic. Has always been, since his childhood, and he is not build to easily wiggle through the smallest cracks. The idea of something poking out from the water, from a pond that’s not supposed to be deep enough for him to drown in, something that wraps its arms around him, pulling him in, tugging him down, stronger than its spindly arms let others believe. The pond is barely big enough for Martin to lie in it, all rolled together, tugging his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. He couldn’t fit. No way. Earth and stones and grown algae pressing in on him, restricting him from all sides, close in, close in, close in. Underwater, nobody listens, no screams echo, breathing hurts, burns lungs up from the inside.

Martin shivers violently. He does not like this pond in any way, even if it’s not supernatural.

“Do you think you can still remember where you saw something?”, Tim asks. He still kneels next to Sasha.

“I guess so. It’s not that big.” She sifts through the photos she took, before handing both – photos and camera – over to Martin, who takes them grateful for a reason to turn away from the pond when he bags up the photos.

“Then let’s take the infrared camera and check for suspicious cold spots or maybe body heat.”

Martin nearly drops the polaroid camera. “Do you think there’s a _body in there?_ ”

“I hope not.”

The infrared camera is a bit of a hassle. It’s bigger and bulkier than the other handheld devices, with a fairly big screen for them to see the temperature differences around. Tim holds it up while Sasha directs him around. They stand with their backs to Martin so that he can watch the screen as well. Most of it is covered in blue and green, no heat radiates from anywhere around, except when Sasha points and the camera catches her hand in a blur of red before Tim readjusts it. Martin follows Sasha’s line of sight but can’t make out anything besides the muddy brown water and the mix of green, brown, and occasional splats of colourful flowers around it. Nothing particular body-shaped comes to light. The pond lies there unsuspecting, completely innocent.

_It’s not waiting for us to let our guard down. It is **not.**_

Martin doesn’t succeed in convincing himself, but he also makes a point of not saying his thoughts out loud. Instead, he keeps his attention trained on the screen in front of him. Nothing moves and no sudden temperature drops (or rises) appear. Sasha moves Tim’s arm again until he surrenders the camera to her and she skirts the edges like she’s hunting or trying out the perfect spot to place a trap.

“Do you really think there’s something in the pond?”, Martin asks after a long while in which Tim armed himself with the EMF metre again and has Martin record his findings.

“Honestly?”, Sasha says. “I have no idea. Maybe. But if there’s anything down there, we can’t pick anything up on it.”

“Maybe it’s hidden.” Tim straightens from his position, half lying, half crouching between pond and fence. Next to him, Martin switches the tape recorder off.

“Let’s take a break. We can collect samples after some sandwiches, maybe do one last reading, then head home if we find nothing.”

Martin nods, while Sasha frowns down at her reflection in the not so still pond water anymore. Tim just dumps their equipment back into his backpack and makes a show of searching through his things.

“Sash, come here, you’ll want to see what I have for you guys!”

Martin is the first back at their bags, but Sasha is close on his heels, already grinning with barely disguised mischief.

“Is it another ghost biscuit?” She flops down next to Tim onto an impromptu picknick blanket made of Tim’s flannel and Martin’s rain jacket.

“Oh, you know me too well.” Tim shakes a greenish box with both hands. Inside, the rattling of butter biscuits sounds.

Martin pulls his own backpack closer and finds himself a nice patch of not too wet grass next to Tim before he asks: “Is your secret ghost ingredient the soul of our victims?”

“The only victims I leave behind are those falling for my dashing good looks.” Tim throws his braids over his shoulder. It needs some squirming before he manages to strike a pose, but he does. Somehow. While sitting on his own shirt sandwiched between Sasha and Martin.

Sasha steals Tim’s biscuit box from him when he’s still squirming. “Tim just smacks some sugar coating onto biscuits he buys. They’re ghost biscuits.”

She opens the box and shoves it towards Martin, but not before she picks two for herself. Indeed, the biscuits Martin finds in there are definitely store bought. But they were dipped in some white sugar glaze that sticks to his fingers when he eats them.

“Everybody loves ghost biscuits”, Tim says as Martin gingerly picks his one up, trying not to smear the glaze all over his hands and face.

“Why are they called ghost biscuits?” He bites one and – yep, tastes like store bought biscuits with a lot of sugar on top.

“Hm?” Tim still rummages through his things. “Oh, it’s what my brother always calls them. I can’t really bake, so he has to live with them whenever he – aha!” Triumphal he holds up a thermos like a prize. “Coffee!”

His shout reminds Martin of the tea he brought along himself. It’s a nice fruity mix he usually drinks with honey when his throat gets all rough at the beginning of a cold. Also perfect for days like today, when he walks the entire morning around a small pond, crouching and straightening until his knees and shoulders complain.

“It’s already nearly one”, Sasha says. “No wonder I’m hungry enough to eat all your ghosties.”

Tim grins. “There’s more where those came from, it’s enough for all of us.”

“Do you have anything else to eat?”, Martin asks.

“Does coffee count?”

Martin huffs. “No, it doesn’t!” He shakes his head, and goes on to explain how important it is to eat even on days like today, especially on days like today, all while pulling out two more of the Tupper boxes he inherited from his mother after she moved to the nursing home.

“There you go, this is”, he hands the first box to Sasha, “eggs and cress, and this”, the next box goes to Tim’s waiting hands, “is cheese and ham.”

“You made us sandwiches?”, Sasha asks opening her box. “They look amazing, Martin.”

“And they taste even better”, Tim says, already half on his way to bite into his first half.

“Wait a minute, Martin…” Sasha fixates Tim with her eyes. He holds his sandwich halfway between his mouth and the box in his lap. “Tim, you didn’t _tell_ Martin to make us sandwiches, did you?”

“What? No!” He shakes his head but can’t really use his hands to gesture. “No, Martin sometimes brings lunch to work and shares with me, right Martin?”

“Uhm… yes?”

It’s not even a lie, it’s pretty much 100% the full truth, and Tim didn’t tell him to bring anything, but Martin already knew he had to pack food for himself, so why not also pack for the others? That way he can be sure they actually have something to eat.

“Really Sasha, I just brought something because I thought”, he shrugs, “maybe… I thought it’d be a nice thing to do.” Then he adds hurriedly: “You don’t have to eat it of course!”

It’s too late anyway, Sasha already took a bite out of her sandwich.

“It’s really good”, she says with her mouth full.

Next to her Tim just nods. “Told you.”

There’s nothing left for Martin than to sigh deeply before picking up his own little lunch he scraped together from the leftovers he had from Sasha and Tim’s sandwiches. He’s ready to share his tea, too, but they already took from Tim’s coffee, which leaves him with his own cup of steaming hot tea.

They do not eat in silence, far from it. Tim keeps them entertained with theories and stories that leave Martin doubting his view on the supernatural as a whole. His brother, Danny, apparently had a run in with a shady circus when he went through an urban exploring kind of phase. But he left the circus and the whole urban exploring thing behind afterwards and went through a variety of other interests in the last few years. Most of the times, he subjects Tim to his newfound interests. With different outcomes. Sometimes, he comes up here, for hiking, for botanic explorations, just for some calm. He also sends things, like biscuits (not the ghost kind), and letters and photos. Tim swears the watercolour painting he sent him a year ago looks like Martin.

“It was foretold!”

“By your brother’s watercolours?” Sasha chuckles, snatching the last ghost biscuit from him.

“Oh come on, why not? People see Jesus in their porridge, why can’t I see Martin in Danny’s watercolours?”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but she smiles to herself while licking the remaining sugar glaze off her fingers. “Now, what do you guys think we should do? Bag samples and then head back or maybe we should take a look into the house as well?”

Martin risks a long glance at the house. It’s a ruin, really, more skeleton than actual building. Held together by spite and the memory of once being a home, of protecting memories, people inside. Martin pities it. He has never really known a home, not in the sense people mean it. Home was always just a place to where he returned to sleep and eat, home was barely homely, the atmosphere hostile, the touches hurtful, his memories pushed back as far as possible. This might have been a home like the ones Martin read about as a child, a home he dreamed of when he had to go back, when he had no other choice than to return to the place he was allowed to stay for the time being. There had been no hard feelings when Martin had moved from his childhood home to London, and not when he moved from London again. In stories, homes where more. They were a safe heaven, an oasis, somewhere you wanted to be, not just an obligatory place you rented as to not get lost in the world.

He wonders idly if this house had once been a home. A real home to people, who missed it after moving. But seeing as it was now left to die on its own, he doubts it.

Tim hums next to him, eyeing the building with more intensity than he had the pond. “I’ll be honest with you, Sash. But it looks more dangerous than haunted. And I really don’t want to have to drag you out because you got hit by a bunch of falling tiles.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Sasha sighs. “Then let’s clean up and take our samples. We’ll be done in… less than two hours if we’re lucky.”

“Or careless.”

“Tim!” Sasha makes a scandalised noise that goes well with Tim’s laughter.

Martin can’t keep himself from sighing fondly. These are his friends, he chose them more or less willingly (less actually, Sasha and Tim adopted him more than anything else), and he’s glad he has them. Later this week, on Friday maybe when they have their weekly “shit on Leitner” drinking round as Tim calls it, maybe then he can tell them about his father. He’s still not entirely sure what he should do about it. Should he even do anything? After everything, he just appeared, and who’s to say he won’t just disappear as quickly?

It’s not that Martin hates his father. Or at least not like he actually thinks he does. It’s not even hard to believe someone would willingly abandon him, Martin had a couple of breakups ending with him just being left in the rain, so he understands. He really does. But why come back all of a sudden? To make amends?

Martin shakes his head. Now is not the time to think about it. He should much rather concentrate on their samples. He’s on bagging up brackish water duty and even if this is in no way actually dangerous, he doesn’t want to douse himself in it.

Tim, on the other hand, collects mud from the banks, shaking his head. “Let’s be real, this was super boring.”

“We don’t know if there’s really nothing here”, Sasha rips out a chunk of grass with her gardening gloves before bagging it up as well.

“Pretty sure the lab guys won’t find anything either.” He waves his plastic bag of muddy earth. It clings to his gloves as well, staining them in greyish brown, even though he scoops it up with a spade and not his hands.

“Except for my disappointment.” Tim seems genuinely upset about not finding anything here if the ferocity with which he stabs the ground is anything to go by.

“It’s not that bad”, Martin says. “At least now we know there’s nothing around. Nothing dangerous.”

Tim shrugs. “Still, I was looking forward to some spookiness.”

Martin just hums, unsure of what to answer. So, he turns back to the water itself. Sasha straight up brought a ladle with her with which he carefully transfers the pond water to the containment unit (it’s a thermos, really, but the lab guys handed it over as if Martin asked them for the holy grail of water containers). He sits in a somewhat unstable crouch at the edge, with Sasha’s ladle and the holy thermos in his hands, leaning over the pond, carefully scooping water without getting it on his own clothes.

None of them notices the figure approaching the fence from the other side of the street. There’s no warning before the figure comes to a halt right behind Tim and asks:

“What are you doing there?”

By all means, it should be Martin in his dangerously unstable leaning over the water, but it’s Tim. Tim, in his pink wellies, sitting in a far more stable position, and with one hand on the fence, who loses his footing. He lands in the middle of the pond, splashing water everywhere.

“Tim!”

Sasha immediately reaches for him over the waves soaking up her shoes and trousers. Martin hurries around the pond, holy thermos completely forgotten, holding out a hand next to Sasha for Tim to grab and pull himself up. He takes both their hands and lets them pull him out of the water. It’s not deep, reaches barely up to his waist, so he can climb out fairly easily, but he’s still soaked from head to toes. Panting, with water in his wellingtons and his plastic bag of soggy earth lost in the depth of a probably (hopefully) un-haunted pond, Tim sits between Martin and Sasha.

“I’m…”, the figure says hesitantly from behind the fence. Martin’s gaze snaps up for the first time, not sure yet if he should yell at them, but he doesn’t come to a decision fast enough before he recognises Jon. He’s reaching out with one hand as if he tried to somehow grab Tim before he fell.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim just flaps his hands and lets himself fall backwards into the rest of the garden. “It’s okay, Jon, don’t worry.”

“I… hm…”

Sasha pats Tim’s chest. “Still boring?”

He bats her hand away. “Oh shut up, James.”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Tim?” Martin has a small first aid kit in his backpack, he felt only a little paranoid when he packed it yesterday, now he’s glad he remembered.

“Yes, yes, I’m just…” He kicks off one of his shoes and a gush of dirty water finds its way back to the pond.

“You’re just really soaked”, Sasha says. “I guess that concludes our field trip.”

“Your…” Jon looks between Sasha and Martin back to Tim. “You’re on a field trip to a pond?”

“It’s a magic pond”, Tim supplies ever helpful from his lying position, propping his head up with only one arm.

Jon frowns. He looks back to the pond and his stare turns to something heavier, examining every little movement on the surface, searching for something deeper, something _more._ His eyes stay unfocussed, before he blinks and looks back at the three of them.

“It’s just a pond.”

“Yes.” Tim shoots him finger guns even though he still lies on his back. “But it’s also magic.”

“It’s really not.”

“Jon.” Finally, Tim pushes himself up into a sitting position, still leaning back onto his arms. “I just fell into this thing. It’s super spooky.”

Jon pulls a face that makes him look like a disgruntled cat, his glasses slip down, but he pushes them back up with two fingers. He’s just about to reply when Sasha pipes up next to Tim.

“Do you know anything about the pond? Or the house maybe?”

Jon blinks again. His eyes flicker to the house for barely a moment, but he doesn’t stare at it like he did with the pond.

“Of course. I guess there were reports of injuries, right? People who investigated here came back with red marks around their legs?”

Tim sits up properly. “Yes.”

Now, he has even Martin’s attention. There is still a somewhat old apprehension he has towards the supernatural, something that keeps him from simply believing even all the statements he files as “real”. Maybe it’s just safer that way. Maybe he’s just a teeny tiny bit afraid.

“Well”, Jon points to the high arching leaves Tim lay down on, “those are stinging nettles. It’s what they do.”

“They what?” Tim jumps up, stumbling away from the impression he left in the nettles. “Oh fuck!”

By sheer luck he doesn’t fall into the pond again. Martin and Sasha are quick to vacate their positions as well.

“I doubt they had a chance to sting you”, Jon says. “You lay on them with your clothes on.”

“Yes well”, Tim pats himself down, “but having supernatural nettles sting me wouldn’t be the spookiest thing that happened here.”

Again, Jon scrunches up his nose, his lips tighten to a thin line. “I wouldn’t call the supernatural occurrences here… spooky.”

Martin can’t keep himself from smiling. Jon looks somewhat cute when he tries not to snap at Tim, like an upset cat holding back its claws.

“Regardless of its spookiness”, Sasha says, ignoring the slight twitch in Jon’s face, “we need to retake the samples you lost.”

Tim throws both his hands up in surrender. “I know, I know.”

“And afterwards, you should take a shower before you buy us drinks.”

“You know”, Tim shakes more water from his sleeves, “Jon should be the one to buy us all drinks, it’s his fault we lost our samples after all.”

“Uhm…”, Jon says.

“True, true.” Sasha grins. “How about it, Jon? Want to let lose tonight and celebrate with us?”

“Celebrate… what exactly?”

Tim just points to everything around them, but especially the pond. “Ridding the village of another supernatural problem.”

“There’s nothing supernatural about”

But Sasha cuts him off: “Perfect! We’ll be done here in less than an hour and Tim has to go home to clean himself up. So, what do you say we meet up at the pub at around six?”

“I have”

“Papers to grade?” Tim rolls his eyes. “Jon, your pupils are six, you teach them how to read and count to ten.”

Jon huffs. “You would be a horrible teacher, Timothy Stoker.”

“Oh good, that’s why I never tried. Now come on, do you really have something better to do tonight?”

“I… I do not, no.” How can someone actually look disappointed at the prospect of going out for drinks with his friends?

“You don’t have to”, Martin says. “We won’t force you.”

“I will”, Tim nods and Sasha nods back at him.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt.” Jon shrugs, a smile plays around the edges of his lips. Martin doesn’t know him well, but it seems a lot like he expected Tim and Sasha’s insistency and doesn’t mind at all.

“Perfect”, Sasha says again. “Then, we’ll see you at six, don’t be late, Tim buys us drinks.”

“When have I ever.” It’s very clearly not a question, but Tim still takes it upon himself to answer:

“Last Christmas when you brought Gerry along, but he “accidentally” got lost even though you sat next to him in his car.”

Jon’s face darkens all of a sudden. “Yes. I recall. Leitner called me about the ah… rather strong worded letter he found in his mail the next day.”

“But Gerry is not here today, right?”

“Ah, no, he’s back in London. Still on the hunt for Magnus’ books.”

Martin is dying to know who this Gerry person is supposed to be, but he bites his tongue. He’ll just ask tonight. And if he stays around for long enough maybe he can meet him on this year’s Christmas. He’d like that. Really. Everything is going to work out just fine. He doesn’t need his father wreaking havoc in his life, not now when he’s so close to settling down, when everything is winding down.

“However”, Jon readjusts his glasses again, “Daisy is staying over for the week. So if you all agree, I will bring her, too.”

Tim and Sasha are quick to shout their agreement, but Jon’s question is more directed to Martin. his eyes are trained on him, pining him in place. Daisy, the… nice (?) lady he talked to yesterday when he tried to call Jon. She was terrifying. Her voice still rings in the back of his head, making all the little hairs stand up in his neck.

“S-sure.” His laugh is strangled, but still there, still recognisable as a laugh. “The more, the merrier.”

“Then, we will meet you at six. I hope Daisy will be home soon, she went out hunting.” Jon nods once, brusque, abrupt. It’s a clear dismissal, in no way unkind, just quick. He turns to leave, but Tim holds his hand out for a high five. Jon takes a moment to glare at both Tim’s face and his hand before he begrudgingly gives in.

“See you then, Jon!”, Sasha calls.

Jon waves over his shoulder without turning around.

“Right then!” Sasha claps her hands. “Tim can now collect the samples he lost due to being jumpy!”

♣

Martin ends up being late. He took a shower, had something to eat, and now it’s half past six and he only just arrived at the pub. Sasha, Tim, and Jon with his extra guest are seated at their usual booth, already with drinks in front of them, already arguing. The few other people around greet Martin with a quick nod when he passes them, and Martin nods back. Politely, but he hurries along without buying himself a drink first. He’s already late, he doesn’t want to let his friends wait any longer. Besides, any longer absence could lead to questions why he was late in the first place, questions he doesn’t want to answer. Not tonight anyway.

“Martin!”, Tim greets in his usual tradition.

He and a terrifying woman (so that’s Daisy, yes, she looks just like she sounds) sit across from Jon and Sasha. Tim tries to make room for Martin to sit next to him, but Daisy doesn’t move an inch, only narrowing her eyes onto Martin.

“I… H-hi, everyone.”

He offers a smile Daisy doesn’t take. Jon, on the other hand, nods and lets Sasha push him deeper into the booth for Martin to sit next to her.

“Glad you made it!”, Sasha says grinning widely.

“Sorry I’m late.” He sits next to her, setting his bag down under the table. Daisy stares at him from across the table, seizing him up once before she relaxes back into her seat. Her attention is still on him, but not like she wants to rip him apart anymore (interrogate him, not kill him, definitely interrogate him, nothing more, yep).

“Yeah you should be sorry”, Tim says, “you missed the best joke of the evening.”

“I did? But it’s only half past six?”

Tim giggles. “Doesn’t matter, time isn’t real anyway.”

From his seat between Daisy and Sasha, Jon sighs. “Don’t worry about it, Martin. Tim just finds it hilarious to make fun of me.”

“Aww hey, no, I just make fun of teachers.”

Jon gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes. Exactly what I just said.”

“That’s it, I’m getting you drunk!” Tim shoves his glass towards Jon who just quirks one eyebrow.

“I do not think this is a good idea.”

“Whisky”, Daisy says suddenly. It’s the first thing she said, and even if Martin heard her voice yesterday on the phone, he still finds himself taken aback. There’s no snarling, no growling in her words. He immediately smacks his metaphorical palm against his face. Of course she doesn’t growl. People usually don’t! 

“If Tim pays for our drinks anyway, we can have some whisky.” She pats Jon on the upper back with such strength Jon’s entire body moves visibly forward. He takes some time to readjust his glasses before answering and the image of a squirrel comes to Martin’s mind. He only barely suppresses a smile.

“I suppose it won’t… hurt.”

“That’s the Jon I know.”

She nods and it’s just as brusque as Jon’s nods tend to be, just more… violently. Where Jon’s are quick, rude, but not unkind (Martin was on the receiving end of several actually kind gestures, mainly involving his tea), Daisy’s hold a dangerous precision. Martin looks between them. Jon sits… attentively. Stiff in a formal way that just screams “I’m trying to keep myself from slumping into an ergonomically questionable position”, whereas the stiffness that clings to Daisy has something of taunt muscles. A raptor ready to sprint and jump, to claw its way into a soft belly under strong leather-like skin, to rip and tear through muscle and flesh. Martin has to look twice to make sure the birthmark under her eye is actually a birthmark and not a drop of dried blood. And she’s tall. Easily as tall as he is and then a bit more. Her hair is blond, kept short, clearly cut for practicality. Martin would not be surprised to find out she cuts it herself with a knife. There are scars on her face, none as prominent as Jon’s, but they still stand out. Especially three long cuts over her collarbone. The scar tissue there is twisted and warped, standing paler against her freckled white skin. It looks like claw wounds to Martin. Like the remains of a fight with a wolf.

It’s stupid. Martin has never seen the claw marks wolfs leave. He has never even seen a wolf. And it makes no sense whatsoever. No. the scar is just a scar and has no resemblance to claw marks at all. Martin resolutely leads his thoughts to a very different direction by asking Tim to bring him a beer back when he already gets up to order an entire bottle of Whisky.

“Leitner pays me enough for one evening of indulgence”, he says as he sets the bottle down in the middle (and slides Martin the same brand of beer he has been drinking here every Friday). “You picked your poison, now prepare to _die_!”

Daisy’s eyes sharpen, fixating on Tim. “Oh you don’t know what you’re talking, Stoker.”

“Scared?”

_Yes,_ Martin thinks and admires Tim for his bravery.

“You wish!”

Tim reaches for the bottle just to find it gone. His dumbfounded fumbling interrupts his and Daisy’s staring match for long enough to bring their attention back to the rest of the table. Martin tries his best innocent smile (which doesn’t feel so innocent actually, not with how Daisy’s eyes linger on him for a second too long before they snap to Sasha), while Sasha just grins at the scene in front.

“Oh this is great”, she says, “this will be an amazing evening.”

Jon sends Daisy a levelled stare over his whisky glass. His _filled_ whiskey glass.

“You.” The growl Martin expected misses, her voice could still make Martin flinch, but her eyes show nothing but fondness. They are, Martin reminds himself, not suddenly brown, they didn’t switch from a bloodthirsty red to a soft, muddy brown. They were always brown.

Jon tips his glass towards her in a mock-toast. “Cheers.”

Martin has the brain of a poet. He’s incapable of leaving moments go, he holds them close, burns them into his memory. And Jon, leaning back in his seat, his legs crossed, a whisky glass in his unscarred hand, his smile nothing but smug satisfaction of how easily he played them both. He has, Martin has to admit, a strong vibe to him that simply screams too-tired librarian, or average-tired teacher. Now, however, he’s changed out of his professional shirt and soft brown leather jacket with its even softer patches at the elbows and the big colourful buttons, into a too big jumper. Its grey and slips down one shoulder, revealing a more colourful shirt underneath, but every now and then Jon shrugs the collar back up to cover it until it slips down again. Now, he looks like the witch Martin thought him to be since the very first time they spoke. He’s waiting for flowers to bloom from his whisky glass, for the ice cubes in it to sprout like saplings until slim green vines rank their way around his arm and up his shoulder.

“Hell yes!”, Tim says, breaking Martin’s daydreaming and finally grabbing the whisky bottle. “Mr. stuffy teacher lets loose tonight!”

Instantly, Jon screws his face up into a scowl. The moment is gone, and Martin is left with flowery poetry blooming on his tongue he has to wash down with a sip of too bitter beer. Tim pours himself a generous amount, but Daisy steals the bottle before he can overdo it.

“If even one of them ends up blackout drunk”, Sasha mumbles, barely above a whisper, “we just have to take embarrassing pictures.”

Martin grins. He is fairly sure nobody heard her except for him, but the way Jon smiles into his whisky before taking a sip makes him reconsider. He doesn’t say anything, just drowns his smile and when the glass leaves his lips, Jon frowns again.

“And you!” Tim points at Daisy like he’s trying to spear her with his finger right through the heart. “I’m getting you to tell me about your embarrassing teen years, all the awkward shit you did in your twenties, I want all the good stuff!”

Daisy grins. Her teeth are sharp, ready to sink into soft flesh and rip and… and Martin should really focus on something else. For example his own still full glass. Yes. Perfect.

“If you want gossip on Daisy”, Jon says suddenly, “I do know some things you might be interested in.”

Tim practically glows. Daisy glowers.

“Do tell.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Jon takes another sip but doesn’t answer. This time he can’t cover his mischievous grin with his glass, it’s spreading all over his face, too wide to be hidden.

“Now, come on, Jon, own up on your mysterious knowledge.”

But Jon doesn’t. He just shrugs and sends Tim his best dismissing look. Or maybe it’s just a mildly dismissive glance and his best one is reserved for troublemakers in his classroom. Martin finds, he has a _very_ convincing no-nonsense stare. He’s not six anymore, but it works on him just as well. Just like it does on Tim.

“Well”, Tim says, levelling the bottle of whisky, “the evening just started, no reason to jump ahead to the best parts already. Maybe we should redirect our attention.”

Martin does not like the look in Tim’s eyes. Daisy he can stand, she just stares intensely (and with an aura of blood and violence, but that’s just by the by). But Tim’s face has all of Martin’s guards snap up.

“Martin.” His voice climbs to a high singsong.

“You’re not getting any gossip out of me, Tim.”

Tim pouts. “I literally fell into a pond today, you should all be extra nice to me.”

“I am very nice”, Sasha says, “I haven’t made fun of you for at least six minutes.”

Tim leans back, mumbling something about “cruel friends” into his glass that has them all laughing while he pretends to be hurt. He doesn’t last very long, less than a minute later he starts up his interrogations again, with another too full glass of whisky.

None of them is, as Martin discovers, particularly keen on drinking quickly or excessively. Sasha only asks him once if he wants another beer, and Tim has him try one glass of whisky simply for the taste. Martin doesn’t hate it, but it’s still nothing he can imagine drinking for its taste alone. So he sticks with his beer. And later whatever the liquor mix is, Sasha ordered for herself and ends up sharing with him. Even Daisy doesn’t stare as much as the evening progresses. Martin can’t tell how much whisky she drinks, but it must rival Tim’s intake which increases with each hour. And tipsy Tim is just as fun to be around as sober Tim. He doesn’t really lose any of his charm, just some inhibitions and Daisy smacks him once over the head when he jokingly tries to hit on Jon. Jon rolls his eyes, but he smiles. A common occurrence then.

“Okay, okay”, Tim says. He’s not yet slurring, but his pronunciation is getting loftier. “There are other beautiful people on this table.” Immediately, he turns to Martin. “Martin. Tell me something that’s so super embarrassing you wouldn’t tell me if you weren’t drunk.”

Martin rests his forearms on the table. His cheeks are flushed, just a little, tinted pink maybe, but not yet deep red.

“I’m not drunk, Tim. I’m not telling you my embarrassing stories.”

“Spoilsport.” He downs the rest of his whisky, slamming the glass onto the table. “Who’s ready for a second bottle!”

“Definitely not you”, Jon says.

It’s not a question and Tim doesn’t care. He stands and strides over to get them another bloody bottle. Martin sighs. He has nothing really to drink himself, and he doesn’t feel like letting Tim choose his next beverage is a good idea, so he gets up himself.

His head goes a little fuzzy when he stands up. He can manage, but it throws him a little off balance. The table is right there, though, so he keeps himself steady by gripping its edge.

“Are you okay?”, Jon asks. He’s the furthest away, still sitting between Daisy and Sasha, who are sharing the leftover of Sasha’s second liquor mix.

Martin shakes his head clearer. “Ye-yeah, sure. Heh, just, uhm, not used to drinking.”

Jon’s brows knit together in what Martin wants to believe is concern but can’t distinguish from his usual frowny face all that well. He looks cute like this, Martin thinks. The too big jumper slipped down his shoulder again and Jon hasn’t shrugged it back into place yet. The glow of the lights overhead casts the entire table in a halo of light. It’s soft, like the golden light of dawn, when everything is a canvas and the sun paints it all in the most beautiful colours. Martin wrote poetry about those times. Just never made the connection from eternal light to a dimly lit booth in a pub. It’s not quite golden, he has to admit. But Jon sits just perfectly for the light to catch in his hair and highlight the grey streaks in it, transforming them into strings of molten silver, of bright white enclosures in an otherwise perfect gem. 

_A tiger’s eye, smooth looking, streaked with brighter and darker tones of brown,_ he thinks, grinning like an idiot while swaying under the slightly yellow tinted shine of a lightbulb in the middle of the only pub around. Good to know he can still compose poetry about his friends.

“’m get some, uuhm, water.”

“Maybe get one for Tim as well.” Jon smirks. It suits him. Martin just nods.

He tears himself away from the table and finds his way to the bar without falling over his own feet or stumbling into any of the other guests that are still there. Instead he finds himself next to Tim, who is trying to convince the bartender to sell him his best whisky. The other man shoots Martin a glance that roughly translates to “He with you?” and Martin nods. He’s still sober enough to be responsible on other’s behalf.

“We both take a glass of water.”

“Aww, betrayal!” Tim leans heavily on Martin’s shoulder.

“You uhm you will hate yourself. In the morning, I mean.”

“Not with this!” He holds up the same bottle of whisky he, Jon, and Daisy already emptied. This one is still half full.

“Got it at half the price.”

“Mhm…” Martin looks back to their table, where Daisy and Sasha debate if sweet or bitter drinks are better while Jon nips on his… fifth? Sixth glass? Martin doesn’t know? He’s still perfectly sober. As is Daisy. Sasha seems just a little tipsy. Seems like he really had a little too much, and Tim had _a lot_ too much.

“M’by…” He clears his throat to get Tim’s attention before he tries to speak again. “You… uhm… should not drink…”, he points to the bottle, “that.”

“Bullshit!” Tim tries to hit him on the shoulder, misses and ends up patting his neck. “I’m this close to figure out how Daisy and Jon became… uhm…” He frowns in confusion or concentration, Martin doesn’t really know, but he’s certainly trying to puzzle out how to end this sentence. Eventually, he settles on:

“Whatever they are!”

“Roommates”, Martin offers, then thanks the bartender for the water.

“Nooo…” Tim drags the vowel out until Martin forces him to stop and drink some water.

“More like”, he squints his eyes to stare deeper into his glass, then at Martin, then at the table, “siblings. Yes. T’night ‘s the glorious night Tim Stoker finds out how Daisy adopted Jon.” He nods to himself and gulps his water down as quickly as he can without hurting himself.

Again, he tries to pat Martin’s shoulder. His aim is slightly better.

“Thanks, Martin!” And he wanders off back to the table.

“You’re welcome?” For what, Martin doesn’t know, but when he turns around and follows Tim with his own water, he has the feeling he should be thanking Tim. And Sasha. And Jon and (even) Daisy. For the entire evening, for putting up with him, for enjoying his company, and laughing about his jokes, and being concerned about him, and letting him share their space.

He sits back down just as Tim fills Daisy’s and Jon’s glasses again, all ice long gone.

_From now on,_ he swears as they all raise their respectable glasses and share a toast, _from now on everything will be alright and nothing bad will ever happen again._ An oath he made over and over again, until it was broken again and again, but this time. Yes, this time will be different!

“To us!”, Tim nearly yells.

“To us!”, they all echo in varying degrees of drunkenness.

Over the chatter and clatter of glasses, he catches Jon’s eye. There’s a short moment when he sees him smile openly, widely, completely and absolutely content like nothing else in this world matters except for this table and the people around it. And Martin smiles back. A smile only reserved for close friends, it’s wide and dopey and full of teeth, but that’s okay. Everything is okay right now. Then, Sasha elbows him into the rips to help her help Tim who tries to coax Daisy into giving him more information about herself.

The loneliest word must be “me” because to Martin “us” suddenly carries everything he ever longed for, everything spread out in front of him, every option he never dared to wish for. And he gladly takes it all in. His smile is so wide it nearly hurts his cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Avatars can’t get drunk because their bodies heal too quickly, so yes, Jon and Daisy drank Tim under the table.
> 
> Next up: a very normal morning for Jon, capital-F Fog, and café ~~dates~~ meetings


	8. How to have a wonderful day … no strings attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Café ~~dates~~ meetings, capital-F Fog, and a very normal morning for Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge for Clubs: Write a chapter with less than 5.000 words (Spoilers: it didn’t work)
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who ever wrote a comment or left kudos! I will keep thanking you until I stop being grateful, which means I will Never Stop.

The knocking is not what wakes Jon. He has been awake for a while now, but decided to find a more comfortable position for his back than whatever the unholy abomination of a position it was he fell asleep in. His pillows are soft, he didn’t forget to take his glasses off before going to bed yesterday, so there’s nothing sharp digging into his skin, but most importantly the blinds on his bedroom window are not closed and there’s no light shining through. His magical conclusion: It’s still too early for him to get up.

So, no, the knocking doesn’t wake him. It just disturbs his calm existence in his own world, where he can doze, blissfully swimming somewhere between awake and still dreaming, where nothing is real and old memories wash out to nothing more than blurry dreams.

Knock – knock – knock

Jon doesn’t stir, just buries his head deeper in his pillows, clutching his blanket with both hands. If he tries hard enough, he can stop himself from waking up entirely. And he can pretend the world isn’t real.

“Jon!”, Daisy calls from outside his bedroom. She knocks again, her knuckles rapping hard against the wood. “Jon, you should get up, it’s a school day.”

“It’s okay, Daisy”, Jon calls back, his voice rough with sleep, still unwilling to move, “I’m twenty-eight, I don’t go to school anymore.”

There’s a pause, no doubt for Daisy to contemplate all her life choices that led her to this day and this position. Jon takes it as blessed peace, sighing contently and melting deeper into his pillows and blankets, before…

Knock – knock – knock.

“I’m giving you a ride.”

“Perfect!” He turns around, facing away from the door. “I can sleep longer then.”

“No.” She knocks again and again, the sound penetrating even through the pillows Jon has piled over his head. “Before you go to work, we eat actual human food because Georgie always bugs me to get you to eat breakfast. Now move your scrawny butt or I’m moving it for you.”

Jon pokes his head up only to call back: “You’re threatening me, I’m calling the police!”

“I am the police!”, comes the immediate answer. She knocks once more. “I heard a cry for help, I’m police, I’m coming in, now.”

She opens the door swiftly, only leaning into his bedroom with her upper body, while somehow still managing to lean against the doorframe, looking incredible smug. Jon knows she does, he doesn’t have to turn around to see it.

“Go away.”

“Get up.”

“I’m dead.”

“I know.”

Jon squeals when his blankets are all but ripped from him and the cold morning air creeps into his limbs and through the fabric of his pyjamas. He curls into a ball and lifts one of his pillows to use as a new too short makeshift blanket.

“It’s far too early to get up anyway. Just let me sleep for ten more minutes.”

“No”, Daisy says.

Jon already knows what’s coming next, so he isn’t surprised when Daisy grabs him around his middle and picks him up from his bed. She heaves him over her shoulder with no effort. Jon lets her. It means he doesn’t have to walk to the kitchen on his own.

“You’re far too light”, she says.

Jon makes a noise that’s little more than acknowledgment. He knows. It’s not like he cares, not like it means anything. He just has his issues with some tastes, some textures, too, so he doesn’t eat with any kind of regularity.

“You’re making breakfast.”

She sets him down in the middle of his kitchen and finds herself a chair on the other side of the tall kitchen island.

“I’m not Melanie, so I’m getting beans. And I’m eating your bacon.”

Jon pulls open his fridge. “Why do all my friends use me as their own personal chef?”

Daisy snorts. “Because you and Georgie are the only two people with decent cooking skills and Georgie isn’t around.”

He tries to hide a yawn behind the fridge door, but Daisy sees it.

“Listen, if this is too much, you can go back to bed anytime, I live here often enough, I can make my own breakfast.”

“Too late.” He fills the electric kettle with water. “You’re getting tea before I start. I swear, I don’t understand why you people have to eat this… this much _stuff_ for breakfast.”

Daisy grunts, but she lets him work in silence. It’s what they always did, how they function. They sit in silence, content, relaxed silence with no obligations. Jon likes having Georgie and Melanie over, he enjoys their presence, he loves them both dearly (even if he would never admit it out loud to Melanie), and he can enjoy the times Daisy brings Basira with her, but it’s somehow different when it’s just the two of them. It’s somehow easier, like this. Daisy sometimes shows up at his doorstep, complaining about the big city and about how hard it is to find a new job after what happened at Magnus’ library. He offers to cook for them even if it’s nine in the evening, but Daisy always declines, just dumps her bags in the guest room (or on the couch if she feels particularly restless) and then leaves to hunt. Hunting usually meant stalking something in the woods or over fields too open for her to hide. Never catching. Catching and killing is what ruins the hunt.

A sentiment Daisy repeats over and over, but Jon, while he can understand what she means, can’t imagine for himself. He is as much of the Hunt as Daisy is of the Eye, which is to say none at all. He stays with secrets and stories, and Daisy stays with her tracking and hunting down without ever succeeding. And as long as she is happy with it.

 _Small mercies,_ Jon thinks. The Slaughter would not be this easily satisfied.

Breakfast is a quiet affair just as Jon’s cooking was. He made them bacon (for Daisy only), eggs, beans, and buttered toast. Usually he has tea and some bread for breakfast if he even remembers.

 _Tomorrow,_ he thinks, pushing the rest of his beans back and forth on his plate, _I can make pancakes. The fancy American way, with sweet batter._ He’s not entirely sure if Daisy would like that. He would. And he had to sit through Daisy’s breakfast routine for the entire week (it’s only Wednesday and Daisy showed up Sunday night) which consists of her idea to eat in the morning so that she has a lot of energy for the rest of the day until she comes back in the evening after running wild. Jon likes sweet things. Like sweet tea and coffee with too much sugar to be recognisable anymore.

“You’re staring”, Daisy says.

Instead of an answer, Jon’s gaze flicks to her plate. He’s sitting next to her at the kitchen island, both of them disregarding the _perfectly fine table in their backs._ Her plate is noticeable emptier than Jon’s, but the second slice of toast he gave her is still untouched.

Jon knows and _knows_ that Daisy lets him get away with certain things she’d kill others for so much as thinking about. He once borrowed her phone (without her knowledge) and she had to chase him down to keep him from texting Basira – as she called it – “dumb shit”. All while yelling “I will kill you!” as threatening as she could.

Still, Jon is – has always been – impulsive. Never dumb, he always knew what consequences awaited him, he just never really thought about them in the very moment of his decision.

So, instead of answering, Jon’s hand shoots forwards to Daisy’s second toast. And Daisy is fast herself. The moment Jon holds his prize in his fingers, she grabs for it as well and the slice rips apart from their equally stubborn pulling. Jon stuffs his half into his mouth before she can do anything else to stop him.

Her eyes narrow to small slits. “You’re on thin ice, Sims.”

“That’s alright, I’m not that heavy”, Jon says matter-of-factly, one hand in front of his mouth since he’s still chewing.

There will be consequences, but for now, Daisy resolves to glaring at him and Jon pretends he doesn’t know what he did. Only when he gets up to put their plates into the dishwasher does she speak up again:

“I’m driving you to school, then I’m out hunting. If you need anything from the store, we can go grocery shopping when I pick you up again.”

Jon takes a moment to think it through. He is short on bacon, but he doesn’t eat it anyway and Daisy won’t complain if she has to live without for the rest of the week. Besides, it’s Wednesday, isn’t it? What was so special about this Wednesday again? Something was up?

 _Appointment at Leitner’s centre,_ the Eye reminds him. _Martin wrote your name down as his four o’clock appointment._

“I fear you will have to go grocery shopping on your own. I have an appointment after work. Unless you want to re-live the joy that is selecting specific soap brands with me.”

Daisy pulls a disgusted face. “No.”

“After we established that”, he points to himself, still in his pyjamas, “I have to shower and change… and find my notes for today.”

“Your study is a mess. Just like you, actually.”

He rolls his eyes, but still slides her another cup of tea. It’s the tea cup with the pink and yellow pastel dots on a white background. This is not Daisy’s tea cup per se, Jon uses it himself quite often and hands it to other visitors as well, it’s just the only tea cup that actually belongs into this cottage. He found it hidden under the kitchen sink when he moved in. It was the last one, the only one of a set broken or scattered, he doesn’t know. It is, however, the cup he usually reserves for Daisy, and also the one she always takes for herself. And it’s not as if Jon doesn’t have an assortment of mismatched and mixed tea cups in his kitchen. Nothing really fits here. It’s all just collected and fit together randomly.

Jon takes his time showering. Simply because he has time. He’s not usually up this early, but with Daisy he always is. Georgie sleeps in, Melanie wakes up whenever. Not even Tim and Sasha (in those rare days when they stayed over) woke him up before his usual time. Which is, to be very clear, still early.

He wonders for a long moment as he towels his hair, if Martin would wake him up. Was he someone, who just let his host sleep and then get up with them? Or would he wake Jon up as Daisy did (maybe less in a Daisy-way…) and let him make breakfast? It’s an interesting question, one the Beholding can’t answer. Instead, it tells him Martin’s first attempt at breakfast in bed for someone Jon doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know either. His patron, however, is relentless when it’s about gossip. So now Jon _knows,_ that Martin texted him just a few minutes ago to confirm their appointment and is now pacing anxiously for fear of seeming incompetent.

He cuts the link to the Eye for the moment. Not completely, he cannot get rid of his patron completely, but he can tune it down enough to not actively know.

After brushing and drying his hair, Jon goes looking for his phone to answer Martin. Tim was the one who suggested he give him his phone number. Just to make sure. Because if Martin was Tim’s friend and Jon was Tim’s friend then by his completely drunken logic they should be friends, too. Jon obliged simply because he didn’t care much, but also because Martin seemed pleasant company and he has nothing to do with the Fears. Except, of course, he works for Leitner. The wrong job is a one-way ticket to becoming an avatar. Jon is the best example after all.

When he finally finds his phone he plugs it in to charge before he checks his messages. He has four, one from Georgie and three from Martin. Georgie’s message is just confirmation for how long Daisy wanted to stay. Martin’s messages read:

> **Martin Blackwood:** Hi Jon! This is Martin!  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** Just wanted to check in on you =) We’re still good for 4h?  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** If not, that’s totally okay! We can reschedule!

Jon types out a quick confirmation before Martin sends him yet another message. He makes an effort to not sound dismissive.

> **Jonathan Sims:** Yes, I will be at the research centre at four o’clock.

There. Another proof that Jon is perfectly capable of being nice. Nodding to himself, Jon dives deeper into his mess of a room (it’s not that much of a mess, he can find things in here pretty quickly, it’s just everyone else, who has problems) and comes up with a slim black hair tie. Armed with his hair tie, he makes his way back to the bathroom, passing Daisy on his way. The TV is on, but she doesn’t really listen to whatever is said, just has it as a background noise.

 _It’s the news,_ Jon knows immediately.

“Do you need a hand?”, she asks one hand hanging over the backrest gesturing for him to come closer.

He holds up his hair tie. “I was just about to braid my hair.”

“Oh perfect.” She turns completely. “Sit down.”

Jon doesn’t argue. They had enough arguments about her braiding his hair for him to know he can neither win, nor does he want to. it’s nice to have someone else do it for him. And Daisy is always careful with him, as if she’s afraid he will break apart if she tugs a little too forcefully. Then again, she saw him struggle, saw him hurt and believed him dead for half a day when the library collapsed over their heads. Sometimes, Jon finds a deep burrowed worry in her eyes. When she doesn’t think he sees her, when he’s especially convincing in pretending to have fallen asleep on the couch while watching some American romcom with her, in those moments, she brushes his hair out of his face and just looks at him. Her eyes go soft, entirely human. She never cries, just looks down and remembers and regrets. Taking in his scars peppered all along his left cheek, down over his neck and the two slashing marks right over his voice box.

She did that. Her marks of violence on a body so small and fragile she still can’t believe he survived. Jon appreciates her efforts. He learned long ago to let her. It’s her personal moment of vulnerability and it means a lot to him that she can have it with him around.

So, he lets her braid his hair, lets her struggle with it, lets her run her fingers through the greying parts.

“You’re the only one of my friends with hair like this”, she says after a while, still braiding.

“Hair like what?”

“This long.” She tugs at one strand, but not forcefully enough to hurt. Jon follows the motion with his head. “I like it.”

He hums in contentment. This is a nice feeling. “I do, too.”

Daisy braids his hair with the same precision she does everything. Calculated and focussed, even though the simple braid Jon wears every day is hardly a work of art. It still takes her longer than it usually takes him and by the time she’s done, Jon finds himself growing more and more restless.

“All done”, she says after tugging at the braid as if she had to test how stable it is and how much weight it can hold. It doesn’t hurt, but Jon reaches for his hair anyway. The braid falls loosely down between his shoulder blades.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.” She pats his shoulder. “Let’s go, then. If I don’t have to pick you up after school, I can start cooking tonight. That is, if you’re good with ready-made whatever I find.”

Jon is not, but he doesn’t say anything. He goes to grab his bags and keys and lets Daisy push him through the front door all while mumbling how he’s not sure when he will be home tonight.

“Do you have some kind of parent-teacher conference?”, Daisy asks when they get into her car.

“No, I- wait! Don’t drive yet, my seatbelt-”

“Alright, alright.” Daisy leans back a little. She is in no way a reckless driver, just a little quicker than Jon in about every aspect. So while she’s ready to go, she has to patiently wait for him to finish fumbling with his seatbelt before they can start.

“So your parent-teacher-meeting?”, she asks again as they make their way through the Scottish landscape.

Jon shrugs. “It’s nothing like that. I have an appointment with Martin.”

“Mhm”, Daisy gives him a _look_ from the corner of her eye. “What kind of appointment?”

“The only kind of appointment those from Leitner do. He wants to know who might be amendable to give their statement.”

“And he has to ask you because?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “I _am_ the Archivist, you know?”

“Yes, and I hope he does _not._ ”

“Even if he doesn’t know the… technical terms for what I am, everyone here knows I collect stories. And I’m a well known face by now. It is not an unexpected conclusion for him to draw.”

Daisy’s grip on the steering wheel grows stronger. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“I know you don’t like him, but he’s definitely not a Web agent, you can stop worrying about that.” Jon turns to stare out the window, so he doesn’t see her grinding her teeth together.

“I don’t… not like him. He’s just new and you’re…”

“Me.”

“Yes. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep you safe? You should pay me.”

Jon gasps audibly. “You should pay _me_ for listening to _this._ ” He points to her currently silent car radio, but they both know what he means.

“Shush”, Daisy’s smile is back. She’s not yet relaxed enough to let go of her iron grip, but it’s a start. “I had to listen to you scream incantations into a microphone, so you have no leverage on anything to do with audio. Neither music, nor podcasts.”

“Don’t pretend you came for my sake, you just wanted to watch Basira.”

She hums. “Maybe. But back to the matter on hand: Some stranger wants to take your statement.”

“He’s neither a stranger, nor does he want my statement.” He shrugs. “Just some intel. And you met him.”

“It’s always the quiet ones you have to fear.”

Jon shrugs again. When they met, Daisy didn’t see him as a danger, just as another innocent person unfortunate enough to have interacted with the monster that was Elias Bouchard. Things changed, of course, they’re closer now, became friends over time. It helped that Jon spoiled Elias’ plans by simply being more competent than Elias (and his marionettes of employees). It took a while, a friendship built on time and shared suffering. It’s something he shares with most of his friends. With those, who know the truth at least.

The subject is dropped for the rest of the ride. Still, the following silence is not uncomfortable, it’s known, welcome, the active choice to simply not speak; it takes the pressure of meaningless chatter off of their shoulders.

The village is mostly empty in the morning. The streets are still dark, behind few of the windows shines light already. Children with their school bags wander the streets, the first chairs are spread in front of the café, but no tourist is anywhere to see. Yet. It’s this time of the year again. Spring, when lovesick couples own the streets, staring into each other’s eyes lovingly, forgetting the place they’re at is not a fairy tale world for their dream honeymoon, but actually a village where real people live. Jon… doesn’t like them. It’s not that he actively hates them, it’s just that… Every year once or twice or a bajillion times a couple stumbles over his cottage. Their cabins are not far out, closer to the village than his, but farther east. Every time, they somehow find time to bother him. They want flowers, they want a chat, they just bother him. He’s proud of himself for never shouting (or only very rarely when some idiot reaches over the fence and just breaks whatever he wants right from the stem), and some snarky remarks and rudeness definitely won’t ruin their oh-so-perfect honeymoon. He’s not outright mean, has never been cruel in his life, so he won’t start now. Sometimes he even invites them in. Some of those happy couples leave with flowers if they have a story for him.

“What would it take me to convince you to either not go at all, or take me with you?”, Daisy asks as she pulls up in front of the school.

Jon already forgot about their earlier conversation, so he hesitates before getting out of the car.

“With the new guy? Your appointment?”

“Oh, right, yes.” He furrows his brows. “Uhm, no, I appreciate the offer, but I rather meet Martin on my own. If I’m wrong and it turns out he’s an avatar after all, determined to kill me, feel free to tell me “I told you so” afterwards.”

“Jon…” She sighs. “Please, don’t get yourself kidnapped.”

“I’ll try my best.”

“That’s absolutely not the right answer, but I’m letting it slide for now.”

 _Small mercies,_ Jon thinks, but doesn’t say it. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I really hope so.”

Then, he closes the car door and Daisy makes a quick turn. Jon looks after her for a moment. She’s the main reason he’s still alive. Without her, Elias could have killed him before he had any chance to see through his schemes. But now, things are different. Now, he can _know_ what’s going on around him. He knows Daisy has started up the Archers again, some episode they listened to before. He knows, Martin texted him again even though his phone is silent. And he knows, that the Brown twins stole Astrid Robinson’s pencil case and hid it on the highest shelf they were able to reach.

“Oh good lord!”, he swears as he turns and hurries to his class.

♣

Finley MacMillan is younger than Martin imagined him. He just turned eighteen this year and is rather intimidated by the interview. Or maybe it’s the building and its spooky aura. Martin can’t tell. He only knows that Finley is very nervous about all of this and keeps glancing at the door often enough for Martin to ask him if he’d like to switch seats with him for him to face the door. He declined, though “declined” is maybe a strong word for the spluttering of “It’s okay! No! Sure! I’m sorry!” he answered with.

“Mr. MacMillan”, Martin says after a long, anxious pause. “Would you rather write your story instead of telling it?”

Finley looks at the tape recorder between them. The table they sit at isn’t big, just enough to hold their cups of tea Martin made, the tape recorder, and some blank sheets Martin brought as a backup. He knows he wouldn’t like to just babble on about haunting fog.

“No, it’s okay, it’s just”, he shrugs, “it feels uhm… weird. Felt like it was all done, I mean I can, I guess I can explain it again.”

“That would be appreciated.” Martin smiles encouragingly.

“I… I guess so, uhm…” He scratches his neck, looks to the door. “Should I just… uhm, start?”

“Yes, just one moment!” Martin clicks the tape recorder on. “Statement of Finley MacMillan, on an encounter of a general apparition materialised as fog. Statement taken directly from subject, by uhm para-parapsychologist Martin Blackwood. Statement begins.”

He motions for Finley to start, and he clears his throat before rubbing his neck again.

“Right, yes, yeah, so… uhm, where do I start? Maybe it’s better if I…” He clears his throat again. “So, I’m Finley MacMillan, I’m eighteen, I work in my dad’s carpentry, but I’m just an intern for now. I mean until I’m you know? Finished learning how to do all the stuff there.

“Anyway, I’m uhm I guess I’m here because things happened. I don’t actually know what it was, though. Jon said, I mean… you know I went to Jon with this?”

Martin nods. “Yes, I do.”

“Right, good, yeah. So, I went to Jon with this. And he just did his… uhm… thing I guess? He just said “tell me your story” and I told him and it was better afterwards, you know? Anyway, Jon said it had something to do with loneliness and that I should try to stay around people for a while and make sure I’m not alone for too long. I’m still living with my dad, so that’s not really hard. It’s… uhm, sometimes harder in the nights. Because I’m all alone in my room, and I’m eighteen years old, I can’t really crawl into bed with my dad at night, heh, no, that’s not, I mean… people don’t do that. Right? It’s just, uhm… lonely. I guess.”

“I understand.” Martin motions for him to try his tea. “But how about you tell me about the night you encountered the fog?”

Finley takes a sip, cautiously, as if testing if it’s poisoned. “It was… I mean, I assume it was early evening? Maybe late afternoon, really. It wasn’t that dark yet, that’s what I mean, and… oh god was it that day? I think I was on my way home? Uhm… maybe. Anyway, important thing is: I, uhm, I passed one of the fields where the, the White cows stand. You know Mrs. White? Likes to joke about how her hair and surname fit, really good friends with the Simmons’, you know?”

Martin nods along even though he does not know Mrs. White.

“Yeah, so I uhm, I passed that field. And like right behind it is a wall? One of those small, old, crumbling things that are only like knee high. There’s also an old shed, but like that’s dusty and full of tags. I think it was then when I noticed… I saw nothing. That’s the best way I can describe it? I saw nobody and nothing, not a soul. Even… even the cows where just… gone. Poof!” He raises his hands mimicking an explosion.

“O-okay?”

“Yeah. They… it’s not like they exploded or anything. It… it’s going to sound so stupid, but… they just vanished. It’s like one second, they’re there. Solid, and alive, and _real._ And the next moment, they’re just… shadows. I couldn’t see them. Not really. Not enough to know what I was seeing where the shadows of cows. My brain had to play tricks on me, I was just… just tired. That’s what I told myself. You’re just tired, Finley.”

He hesitates but doesn’t stop talking for very long.

“I wasn’t. And I knew I wasn’t. And at first there wasn’t even fog. At first there was just nothing. The fog came in much later, but we’ll come to that, I suppose. When I saw… well, the ghosts of a shadow of a highland cow, I managed to talk myself into ignoring it. It was really easy, actually. I had… I mean it had been a stressful week. For my dad. Not really me. I’m just there, somehow. Stand around. People don’t notice me. sometimes even _I_ forget I’m in the room. And isn’t that funny?”

He chuckles.

“It’s not. Jon said, it’s not. And he also said, I should be kinder to myself and stop seeing me as some disposable tool. He’s… he’s right. I’m important. And my dad was worried when I kept having nightmares about… everything. Drowning in fog, screaming for help, but nobody hears me. I saw shadows in my dreams, they… they could have been my friends, my family. Standing with their backs to me, leaving me behind. They wouldn’t. I know that now. I took time to… uhm… reconnect with them. It wasn’t easy, but it’s okay now. I think.”

He shrugs.

“The fog, though. That’s harder to get rid of. It clings to me, grabs my ankles when I least expect it. In that night…”

He shivers.

“You know, I… I know how this sounds, okay? You’re going to think I’m crazy. But I’m not. I am not crazy. The fog was alive. It came from the hills, from between the trees, it came out of the ground I walked on. Like water pressed to the surface by heavy boots treading on muddy land. Everything was full of fog, everything was filled with it. Except for me. Or maybe even me. It… it didn’t really feel like I was part of it. I guess I was more of a vacuum the fog wanted to fill. Jon called it “potential” so I have to assume I was not part of the fog when it tried to catch me. I was not.”

He takes a deep breath, wrings his hands in his lap.

“It was everywhere. Even if it wasn’t inside me, it was everywhere else. It was cold and clammy, and it was… it was easy. The fog was soft, like silk on my skin, its touch was pleasant, clod, but caressing. It was easy to be there, to just exist in… with… well, wherever I was. Somehow, everything was easier, simply because it made no sense. I knew deep within me that I was all alone. I was the only person on this entire planet and nothing I did mattered. Because there was nobody else.”

He shakes his head.

“It doesn’t make any sense. I… I knew it was wrong. I knew it didn’t matter, but I also knew – no, wrong. I _felt_ that it was wrong. I didn’t know anything, not even where the village was, but I was ready to walk on forever if necessary as long as it brought me back home. I just had to get away, I had to find my way back home, it was all I could focus on. Every time the fog closed in on me, I screamed for my dad, or my friends, I… I clung to the memories of them, of us. Laughing and joking, hell, even my dad’s lectures took on a whole new level of comfort. And then when I entered the village it was… it was empty. It was… it was a new kind of terror. An endless abyss of swirling fog, a never-ending nightmare opening up to eternity. I screamed and knocked on doors and my throat was already raw when I saw the lights of the pub. I didn’t dare giving into relieve, I just… I expected a willow of the wisp kind of trick. Floating lights that lead you closer and closer, but you never reach them, you find death at the end of your way. A cliff, a swamp, death all the same. And by god I didn’t want to die. So I screamed, I shouted for help, calling out the same names I had for the last hours. At least, I think I did. Maybe they were the wrong names all along. The memories I clung to, the faces I forced myself to remember disappeared. Slowly, with every step towards the pub, the fog washed away more details I knew of my friends and family. And I… I nearly didn’t open the door at all. By the time I reached the pub, I had forgotten who they were, what they looked like, how their voices sounded.”

He breathes out shakily. A violent shiver rocks through his body.

“I… remember now. All of them. Uhm, yeah. When I… when I opened the door the light spilled out and the fog chose the tactical retreat. That, yeah, I mean, that’s what happened that night. And I already told Jon about it, you know? He… I mean, he didn’t really do anything, just told me to speak, then listened. Uhm, he gave me brownies? He never gives out sweets, but apparently chocolate soothes a lonely soul or something? Yeah, okay, that’s… that’s all. I mean I can answer questions, but uhm… do you have any questions?”

Martin stares for a long moment, his tea forgotten in his hands, the blank papers untouched in front of him. Finley takes another sip, ducking away under his stare.

“Uhm”, Martin says, “Statement… ends. Yes, thank you, Mr. MacMillan.”

He hurries to switch off the tape recorder. The soft click echoes in the small room that’s far too big for both of them. Their breath mingles, the air stale and thick in their lungs. Just like the fog Finley described. Just like what waited for them outside.

“Did uhm…” Finley scratches the back of his neck. “Did you feel it, too?”

“Feel? Feel what?”

The ice cold fog? The edges of a lonely wasteland just on the periphery of his vision? Yes, he sees them, he feels the chill creeping up his trouser legs. There’s no fog to flood the floor, but Martin expects it. He’s cold. Shivering.

“The… uhm it’s like… like something”, Finley looks back to the door, then leans closer to Martin, “like something _watches._ ”

“Ah.”

The feeling of eyes in his back, multiple pairs of eyes, staring, shifting, unblinking, it presses in on him, never too strong to bear, just enough to know it’s here. A curious staring, childish in its desperation for knowledge. It stays with him most of the time when he reads a real statement, Martin is used to it by now. It’s not penetrating, just unsettling. Most days, Martin can ignore it.

“Yes, it’s not unusual here.” Martin offers him a smile. “But don’t worry, it’s not… uhm… it’s not hostile.”

“So it”, Finley lowers his voice, “it’s not like the Fog?”

“No, of course not.” Truth be told, Martin has no idea what it is or if it has anything to do with the capital F Fog.

“If we find anything out, we will contact-“

“Oh no, please don’t.” He hurries to stand up, nearly knocking over his chair in his haste. “I’m done with this, I’m free, I’m uhm… happier, I guess. Nights are a bit awkward, but I can manage. I don’t really, uhm, like I don’t want to know about it. I really don’t. Yes. Uhm… then… have a nice day, Mr. uhm… Black- uhm, Blackwood.”

He hesitates at the door, turns back to Martin, turns back to the door.

“I, uhm… I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”

“Oh! You did! You helped plenty.” Martin nods, collecting his papers even though they don’t need collecting, he didn’t even use them.

“I’m… uh, glad.” He nods once more. “Can I… I mean I’m already…”

It’s more because of his gesturing towards the door than his words that Martin understands he’s asking if he can leave. A little awkward as he already stands at the door, but Martin nods.

“Of course, it seems we’re all done here. Thank you for your time.” He quickly stands and holds out a hand for Finley to shake. He takes it visibly more relaxed.

“Thank you.” And then he’s gone as quickly as humanly possible.

People do not like it here, most do everything to stay far away. And those, who don’t just haven’t been here before. To some extent, Martin understands them. He doesn’t mind it here, it’s okay, he has Sasha and Tim, and Sarah on the mornings before she picks up her daughter. She had caught a parasite a few weeks ago, from her daughter’s stomach bug, she had said. Back then, she, too, had dreams. Nightmares following her from sleep to the realms between waking and sleeping then to the brink of wakefulness. And just like the rest of the villagers she found her way to a certain Jonathan Sims. Who, per some miracle, knew a doctor that could treat her before it worsened. The hospital she had to be admitted to was quite a while away. Martin, Tim, and Sasha sent her flowers and a get-well-soon-card (one with the little bees on the front that says “Bee well”).

Again, it all comes back to a scrawny elementary school teacher. Jon is less cryptic than Martin thought him to be. Yes, he has suspiciously wide knowledge of very niche topics, be it rare herbs, pirate shanties, or parasitologists. Yes, he has a rather big collection of scars. And yes, he is, for some reason, just as kind as he is rude. An interesting mix, but in no way cryptic. Actually, quite the opposite. He’s known here, welcome, very much someone, who shows up often enough to have a place in everyone’s life. The villagers know him, they _like_ him. He has a strong connection to the village.

He is, however, as Martin notices more and more, not someone, who communicates with the same… enthusiasm Tim does. He should have expected it. Really. But Martin liked the idea to text Jon that night when he was tipsy enough to misread Tim’s suggestive (maybe it wasn’t, he doesn’t really know) wink as he pushed Martin’s phone towards Jon to enter his own phone number. He really, really liked the idea to text him when he was back home, just to tell him “I’m home, I’m save, I hope you are, too” and nothing else. It held an intimacy he only ever shared with one friend. Martin lost him, of course, when he left school. But he still remembers the warm feeling of someone caring, someone looking after him instead of the other way around.

A traitorous thought. That’s nothing Martin should look for. Nothing he could ever have.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, calls him back to reality. It’s Jon. He knows even before he opens the text he received that it has to be Jon. And he’s right.

> **Jonathan Sims:** I am not opposed to the centre if you insist on meeting there. However, someone I would rather avoid has a habit of visiting.  
>  **Jonathan Sims:** Hopefully, you understand my apprehension.

Martin reads the texts three times before he allows himself to smile. It sounds like he’s texting some computer program. He’s still waiting for the “If you want to talk to the real Jon Sims please text”. Maybe he should ask to be connected to a real person. But no, that would be mean.

Martin collects his already collected things, then makes his way back to the office. He writes out a text to Jon with one hand.

> **Martin Blackwood:** No worries  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** Anywhere else you’d like to meet?  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** because I dont really know where else to go 

Jon has yet to correct his grammar and Martin is not looking forward to the inevitable moment he mixes up his “your” and “you’re” just for Jon to hold an entire lecture on English grammar. Teacher first and foremost, being a person is a close second.

Martin doesn’t expect him to answer this quickly, but right as he enters the office, his phone buzzes again.

> **Jonathan Sims:** I suppose as you’re only looking for names and not entire stories, we can meet up at the following address:

What follows is a pin on Google maps. Martin doesn’t open it, just types a quick “Ok” and a thumbs up before he sets his empty papers and his tape recorder down onto his desk.

“Any luck?”, Tim asks without looking up from his screen.

“Yep”, he pops the p, “he had some things to say.”

This time, Tim looks up. “Sucks to be you then. Transcribing is the single worst thing in existence.”

“It… it is?” Martin frowns down at his tape recorder.

“Did you just skip any transcription assignments you had in university or do parapsychologists only record and leave the transcription to their assistants?”

“Of course they do. We always work with amazing assistants such as a certain Tim Stoker, from whom I’m hearing a strong love for transcribing interviews.” Martin grins through his panic. _Oh hell, another something I’m supposed to know, but totally suck at? Great! Why don’t I just tattoo “I lied on my CV” onto my head?_

Tim laughs. “No way, Blackwood. I wouldn’t dare to take your transcription fun away.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Martin’s phone buzzes again, Jon’s name fills his screen for a second before it goes dark again.

“You’ve been texting the entire morning.” Tim abandons his research in favour of interrogating Martin. He even sets his elbows on the table and rests his chin on his palms. It’s his “Interrogation posture”. For gossip mostly. If he talks to actual witnesses, he sits straighter and wears a professional smile instead of the smug grin he gives Martin now.

“It’s just Jon”, Martin says and waves Tim’s eyebrow wiggle away with one hand.

“Jon”, he nearly sings his name. “The same Jon you stared at for an entire evening?”

Martin doesn’t squeal. He knows, because he has to keep himself from squealing. “I did not.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.” He is. The warmth creeps up his cheekbones, his skin is positively glowing in dark embarrassment.

“So?” Tim won’t let this go until he has a sufficient answer. “I think, he likes you.”

Martin tries but can’t keep himself from laughing. “No, Tim. He _tolerates_ me.”

“Which is quite literally a love confession from him.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not kidding, Martin. Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to bully me into his life?”

“Maybe he’d have accepted you faster if you had stopped bullying him?”

“You can’t prove that.”

“Scientific studies conclude; people are more likely to enjoy your presence if you aren’t bullying them.”

“Slander!” Tim points accusingly. “I’m a joy to be around!”

“Oh, are we making fun of Tim?”, Sasha asks from the corridor.

“Sasha will stick up for me.” Tim leans back in his desk chair, his grin is wide and cheeky.

“Sure.” Sasha dumps an armful of papers onto his table. “Leitner wants follow up on all of these. They’re from the archives, so they have higher priority than your current cases.”

“Aww what?” Tim digs through the papers. “But these are… they’re all so old! This one is from… 1824?” He flips through the pages. “It’s not even a statement, it’s a letter.”

Still smiling, Sasha rolls her eyes. She rounds his table and picks her phone up from her desk.

“Yes, hello?”, she says as if someone just called her. “Yes, I’ll tell him.” She doesn’t put it down. “Tim, the 1820s just called, they want their dramatic whining back if you’re finished with it.”

Martin snorts, Tim glares.

“Ohoho, you’re on, James!” He picks his own phone from his desk. “Hello? Sasha James?”

“Yes?”, Sasha says into her phone.

“This is Tim, I want my jokes back. They suit me better.”

“Wait, let me check.” She presses the speaker to her shoulder as if to muffle it, then turns to Martin. “Martin, did you see Tim’s humour here today? It’s sparkly, over the top, but still pretty flat.”

“You’re on thin ice, James.” Tim points with his phone. “Besides, Martin won’t be any help, he’s too busy flirting with Jon.”

“Jon?” Finally, Sasha puts her phone down. “Our Jon the teacher?”

“I am _not_ ”, Martin puts extra stress on the last word. “Jon just happens to be on the list of people Leitner wants me to interview.”

“Hm yes…” Tim pretends to think very hard. “But isn’t Greg from the town pharmacy also on your list? Why didn’t you text him the entire morning?”

“The entire morning?” Sasha says the exact moment Martin mumbles: “It wasn’t the entire morning…”

“Listen, this is…” Martin sighs deeply. “Yes, I think Jon looks… cute. But”, he raises his voice a little before Tim can interject anything, “I don’t even know if he likes men and”

“He does”, Sasha and Tim say in unison.

“Uhm… o-okay? But still, that doesn’t change anything. I like him as a _friend_ and I want to know him as a _friend._ All texting was one-hundred percent work related. He’s”, Martin huffs, “he isn’t even my type. I like tall people. Usually.”

“A little shallow, don’t you think?” Tim teases.

“I mean, I’m pretty uhm… big myself.” He opens his arms. “If I ever tried to hug him, I’d probably break him in half.”

“Maybe he’s into that”, Tim says, and Sasha bonks his head with one of her files.

“Listen, Martin”, Sasha says before Tim can protest. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Being”, she repeats Martin’s gesture with her arms, “big is not a bad thing. You’re kind, and always open, and always there if we need help. And yes, you are handsome, don’t try to talk me out of that one, you are! Anyway, the point is, I’m very sure Jon would enjoy one of your hugs. So don’t talk yourself down.”

 _I’m not. I’m none of those things but thank you._ He doesn’t say it. Just swallows his words, buries them under a smile. It’s so much easier to lie to yourself if the words come from someone else.

“I’ll try to remember that. Now!” He holds up his empty mug. “Who wants some tea?”

♣

The address Jon sent him, turns out to belong to the café next to the flower shop Martin bought his now dead marigolds from. It’s cute and extremely _aesthetically pleasing._ Almost too much so. The front is held in white and pastel pink. Brightly blooming flowers hang from the painted balustrades around two small balconies on the second floor. Two chairs stand there around a small table, flowers blooming around them, the iron flowing in forms as soft as metal can be forged to display. A couple sits on one of the balconies, holding hands, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes. Red ivy clings to the outer walls on the ground floor. The menu sign outside advertises at least four options for couples to share.

 _This,_ Martin thinks, _is a nightmare._ It’s too much even for the romantic in him.

Jon waits for him inside. He sits at a table in the far left corner. From his place, he sees Martin the moment he enters and waves him over.

The inside is just as sickeningly romantic as the outside. Decorated with cheap paintings of hearts in different colour palettes, and more flowers hanging from the ceiling. It’s pastel pink in the inside, too, some white mixed in for a splash of non-colour.

“Martin, it’s good to see you again.” Jon nods once when Martin takes his seat across from him.

“Yes, it’s… uhm…” He can’t keep himself from looking around again. “When you told me, we could meet somewhere else, I didn’t think of…”

Jon rolls his eyes and gives a disapproving _tsk._ He’s still wearing his teacher clothes, the fitting button down and the soft leather jacket with the even softer patches at his elbows. It makes Martin even more nervous, has him feel like he’s about to hear a lecture about… whatever he did wrong.

“Yes, I have to admit this is not…” Jon scrunches up his nose. It makes him look way less intimidating.

“It’s not the most professional… environment I could have picked. But despite its usual clientele, the café has a variety of sweets of high quality. I thought a… well, something to drink and to eat would maybe help you after your conversation with Finley MacMillan. His story is rather… cold.”

Jon holds out a menu for Martin to choose from.

“If I am wrong, you can of course demand we relocate…”

“No! No!” Martin snatches the menu out of Jon’s hand. “It’s good, I’m uhm… I’m good.”

While he pretends to be completely engulfed in the menu in front of him, he still feels Jon’s eyes on him. Did he expect something else? Should Martin have… demanded they relocate? No. No, it’s okay here. Just a small café, catering mostly to newlyweds (yes, he puzzled it out on his own), who dream of living up here with no sense of reality in their dreams. Inside, two more couples fill two more tables. They somehow radiate… contentment. Love. A sense of togetherness.

No. Martin doesn’t mind it here. The research centre was cold, never shivering so, but cold in a clinical sense, empty of emotion. Sasha and Tim fill their office with laughter, but it echoes empty in those halls of glass and steel and paper, where the nightmares of thousands of people sleep, lost in the flood of fear and desperation driving them to write and write and write.

Yes. This place feels… like the contrary to the research centre. There’s no emptiness here, no place to hide, no single tables. There’s too much of everything, too much colour, too many flowers, too much… wait does the air smell like roses? It’s impossible to get lost here. Even alone, especially alone, people could find him. And for the first time since he left the interview room with Finley’s statement, Martin feels himself relax.

“I have to admit”, Jon says, “I don’t know your tastes, so I hope you will find something you can enjoy. If not, don’t worry, I will pay for your uhm… beverage.”

“Wh-what? No, Jon, I won’t let you pay for my coffee.” Martin’s scowl rivals Jon’s by now. “It’s all good, you did nothing wrong.”

Jon doesn’t seem convinced, but he turns his gaze back to his own menu.

“We aren’t only here for the hot chocolate”, he says, his eyes still on the paper in front of him, “I assume you have some questions.”

“I… yes, I do.” _For example: Do they use the same baking mix I did for their brownies?_ He doesn’t ask, of course. His questions are delayed for a minute when the waitress takes their orders. She seems to know Jon (not a rare thing, Martin reminds himself) and chats with him about something Martin doesn’t know before she heads off again. It takes her not even five minutes to bring Martin his simple black tea, and Jon his… whatever it is. It has a crown made of cream and little sprinkles on top.

“You wanted to know more about the supernatural occurrences here”, Jon says.

He sweeps his spoon through the unholy amount of whipped cream and lifts a spoonful of rainbow-coloured sprinkles with his completely straight face to his lips. Martin tracks the movement. This has to be the weirdest work meeting he ever had.

“I… uhm… do? Yes, I… yes.”

Jon shoots him a disapproving glare, but all its fierceness is lost when he licks stray rainbow sprinkles off his spoon. Martin finds himself still blushing.

“I…” He clears his throat. “Yes, maybe you… maybe you know some people, who can tell us more? Maybe tell their stories again?”

Jon hums. There’s some whipped cream in the corner of his mouth he has yet to notice.

“I have a list. It is, unfortunately, not long, but I suppose it is a starting point.”

“Ye-yes.” Martin nods as Jon pulls out a sheet of paper with roughly half a dozen names. It’s handwritten in Jon’s clear, but still somewhat pinched writing. Behind the names, Jon wrote little comments like “about two years ago” or “was not true, but he’ll gladly tell you about it as well” and once even the phone number Martin needs.

“Well”, he says smiling again, “good to know we’re not the only ones who get fake statements.”

“Oh no, you don’t have a monopoly on mediocre horror fiction.” Jon sips his drink, his nose brushes the sprinkled whipped cream, but Martin has no time to think about the white dot on the tip of his nose (he immediately wipes it off with his napkin).

“Did you…” Martin finds himself staring. “Was that a joke?”

Jon sighs. “It was supposed to be. I am aware that my jokes… fall flat, as people tell me.”

The blush that had been well on its way to leave Martin alone returns in full force. His ears heat up, his cheeks burn.

“No, no! it was just…” _What? What was it? Don’t be weird! Don’t make this weird!_ “It was just unexpected.”

_Nailed it._

Jon rests both his arms on the table between them. “Unexpected? It is hard to believe even I joke sometimes?”

“Uhm… no. You, I mean you joked yesterday evening, too. So…” Martin wrings his hands, finds his cup, shuffles it back and forth. Sooo… but yesterday, Martin was tipsy enough to spin words of glorious poetry about grey streaks in Jon’s hair, and the romanticism of Sasha’s easy speech. Now, he’s embarrassed for his past self’s sake. Luckily, he did not give an impromptu demonstration of his poetry.

“I suppose.” And then Jon smiles.

Martin has seen Jon smile two times. Yesterday evening when he thought nobody saw him, and right now. He looks younger like this. Still tired, still exhausted, but so much younger. _He looks like his actual age,_ his brain supplies in ever helpful cooperation. For some reason Martin doesn’t want to examine, the thought makes his eyes burn. Hurriedly, he takes a deep sip of his still boiling hot tea and promptly burns his tongue.

The tears in his eyes, are only half from pain.

“Are you okay?”, Jon asks.

Martin curses himself internally when he sees he dropped his smile again. Replaced by the ever present crease in his forehead. Does he sleep like that, too?

“Yes, yes!” He waves his hand in front of his mouth. “Just, uhm, burned my tongue, heh.”

“Well…” Jon leans back, and Martin didn’t even notice he leaned in closer. “Try not to do that again.”

It takes Martin a full three seconds to realise Jon is joking again. The barely-there half smile tugging at the edges of his lips helps. The whipped cream is still there, right next to the smallest scar he has (or Martin sees, actually). It’s small, but deep, looks like a piece of his cheek had been removed and somehow grew back, thinner, twisted with scar tissue, but still there. Martin doesn’t want to imagine what kind of injuries cause these kinds of scars. And how much pain came with them.

Martin doesn’t want to know. But Jon already caught his gaze, automatically following the curve of his lower lip with two scarred fingers. He finds the whipped cream eventually.

“Oh”, he huffs, “I’m sorry, I seem to have terrible manners.”

“No, no! It’s” _cute._ Martin catches himself before he actually says it. No. No, he can’t just blurt out anything he thinks! That’s weird, he doesn’t want to make it weird. Just because Tim likes it when his friends shower him with compliments doesn’t mean Jon like it as well. Doesn’t mean he’ll take it as a compliment either.

“It’s okay”, he says. “I barely even noticed.”

Jon burrows his spoon in his drink again, which misses a great amount of whipped cream and sprinkles by now.

“It’s important to notice even details”, he says. His tone is steady, not yet monotone, but definitely lacking any joking playfulness. “In this village, or rather everywhere, you always have to keep your eyes on the details. Is the fog on those hills just fog or something… different? Something hostile. Am I feeling watched or am I being watched? There’s a difference. And sometimes even simple things like a single spider in…”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Martin says, effectively interrupting Jon’s beginning lecture. He listened to him listing music instruments pirates used in the Golden Era of Piracy for special occasions and not so special occasions, just yesterday. He has to admit, he was leaning heavily towards “drunk” then, so he barely remembers anything Jon said. He only knows it was a rather long lecture.

“Finley mentioned feeling watched in the research centre. As in like an actual presence that watches him.”

Jon falls silent, frowning again. Another thing Martin can add to his “curious facts about Jon”-list; he doesn’t frown when he lectures.

“Happens to all of us, I assume. The research centre is focussed on collecting and investigating statements. The Watcher’s gaze is probably only strong enough during full statements to be tangible.”

Martin raises both eyebrows. “The what?”

“Hm?” Jon stares for a moment over his shoulders, his eyes unfocussed, unconsciously tapping his spoon against the cup’s handle.

“It’s what some people are very afraid of.” He says after a long moment just as Martin is about to ask him if something is wrong. “Being known so throughout that there’s no secret to be kept.”

Martin can’t keep himself from frowning. “Isn’t that… rather a wish? To be known?”

“Maybe…” Jon stirs the rest of his cream nightmare of a coffee. “Maybe that’s the flip side of the coin. There has to be one to everything. All-consuming love consumes you, too, in the end, from both a narcistic and altruistic self-focus grows loneliness, and knowing someone so completely and wholly turns to seeing right through them, through all their secrets and all their fears. All lies and wishes and secret desires spread out simply because you know a person so intimately you can tell their breathing from everybody else’s.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“You tell me.” Jon makes a gesture Martin doesn’t understand, but he files it as a “go ahead” when Jon looks at him expectantly.

“I mean…” He says, takes a sip of barely cooler black tea, then continues: “I would love to find out more about you. Not all your secrets, not that, but I mean… it’s… it’s not easy to move into such a small village and just exist like this. Everybody knows each other, and I feel a little like I’m supposed to know people, too. It’s like a family meeting, but I don’t know the family and I didn’t know I was attending in the first place. I just… I just think, you’re part of, uhm, all of this. You collect stories, help people out, and yeah, I wouldn’t mind befriending someone besides my colleagues. And… Jon? Are you okay?”

Jon... stares. It’s the only fitting description for his current expression. He just stares in silent disbelieve.

“You want to… befriend me? Me? of all people?”

Martin huffs a laugh. “Yes, Jon. You of all people.”

“But I’m…” He searches for words he can’t find, then gestures to himself. “I’m _me._ Why would you want that?”

This time, Martin huffs in clear annoyance. “Okay, don’t do that, don’t talk yourself down. You’re just as worthy of befriending than everybody else in this village. Besides, you gave me tea – which works very well, by the way. And you seem, I mean… I suppose you’re not a serial killer, right?”

“I… no. Not to my knowledge.”

“Perfect.” Martin shrugs. “You fulfil all my friendship criteria.”

Jon sits back, his lips twitch into the soft ghost of a smile. “You need better friendship criteria.”

“Oh hush.” Martin drinks the last remains of his black tea. “Maybe we can meet up again?”

“Sure. I don’t have much to do besides my plants and school.”

Martin clicks his tongue. “Jon, you need to take better care of yourself.”

Jon ignores him completely. “However, I suppose you don’t want us meeting up just to have a five minutes long conversation, then go our ways again.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“So I propose, we can… wait, what?”

Martin shrugs again. His blush was decreasing again, but Jon’s intense stare has it return in full force.

“I don’t mind, meeting up for uhm, lunch maybe? Wednesdays, like today. Four o’clock.” He chuckles. “Maybe not… uhm… not here.”

Jon nods. His face doesn’t betray any of his emotions. “Very well, I’ll be looking forward to next week, then. You can text me if anything else comes up, of course. Be it statements or a simple delay.”

“I- really?” Martin cannot keep himself from grinning (and blushing even darker) and he doesn’t even try.

“Of course.” Jon stands before Martin even thinks of it. “Next week then.”

“I, uhm, yes. Yeah, next week again. Same time, but maybe a place where we can eat something.”

They payed when their order arrived, so there are no financial obligations keeping them here. They can simply leave and find each other again, next week. Except that Jon is wringing his hands, holding onto his chair, letting go grabbing it again. This time, he doesn’t look at Martin at all and he almost misses his staring. Almost.

“Should we… uhm?” He makes a shaking motion with his hand Martin doesn’t understand. Martin tries his best not to look puzzled, but it seems to not work.

“Shake, uhm, hands?” Jon asks, but before Martin can answer that _Yes, sure, sorry, I didn’t know that’s what you wanted, yes, of course, we-_

Jon just opens his arms. His face is turned to the floor and even though Martin cannot see any blushing, he is sure his face must be positively burning. Martin hesitates just long enough for Jon to shrink back. He starts to lower his arms again.

“Right”, he mumbles, “sorry, didn’t want to assume”

“Oh! No! No, it’s fine!” Martin steps forward as quickly as he can and pulls Jon into the shortest hug he ever gave. Jon is small enough to tug his head under Martin’s chin, small enough for Martin’s arm to reach around him, to engulf him in everything that is him. Faintly, somewhere in the back of his head, Martin notices the smell of decaying paper and freshly watered earth. Then the hug is over and Jon steps away.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “It was… yes, it was nice.”

“I’m glad.” Martin smiles at him. _I really, really am._

They part ways in front of the café, Jon walking back home, Martin to his car. They live in opposite directions, but Martin cannot keep himself from offering Jon a lift. He declines. Of course he does. Martin still asks him to text him when he gets home safely. And Jon promises.

And that’s all Martin asks for, right now. A promise of a text message, a quick hug, and the smell of paper and earth overpowered by the artificial rose scent of an over the top romantic café. When did his life become such a chaos? And when did he start to feel so at home here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so multiple people asked for Martin getting a hug, so I decided that yeah, sure, let’s give you guys what you want, you’ll have enough pain to deal with come chapter ten =)
> 
> Next up: knitting group meet-ups, Martin’s relationship status, and family matters


	9. How to find a pattern … in knitting of course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family matters, Martin’s relationship status, and knitting group meet-ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so so much for leaving comments and/or kudos! You guys are amazing!
> 
> And a BIG THANK YOU to you Mintt, because my motivation sometimes needs some extra words to cooperate

Transcribing is the single worst thing in existence. And after three hours Martin still has more than half of Finley MacMillan’s statement to transcribe. If he keeps going at this pace he’ll never get anything else done.

The worst thing is, however, that it’s already six o’clock, Tim and Sasha already left, Martin passed up their Friday drinks, hoping against hope to finish this before the weekend. It’s just writing down what someone said, not that hard, not that much work. Should be okay. Should be easy.

It is not. It’s – as Tim warned him – the single worst torture method ever thought of.

Martin groans. It’s getting late, too late for him to still be here, just for some stupid statement. The days may be getting longer, but at some point, the sunlight won’t be enough to light up the entire office anymore. And Martin has his meeting with Mrs. Willison’s knitting group tomorrow afternoon. She even called him today to ask if he would like to join them for tea afterwards. Martin couldn’t think of a good reason to decline, so now he has his Saturday planned for him. He doesn’t even know if his knitting is good enough for a group of women who apparently knit far longer than him. What if he makes a fool of himself?

Martin is aware of how people see him. Oh he really is. He’s a gay man with a few pounds too much, a liking for poetry, knitting, and painting, and he can be clumsy at the best of times. People mark him as incompetent before they hear him talk. It’s not hard to see it in their eyes. And in a small village like this, he should be more worried about keeping up appearances.

Then again, he lived in London for so long, the anonymity which follows you like cold breath in the winter is hard to forget. He has yet to miss the big city. It left its marks on him, no question, but he never liked it all that much.

Martin clicks the tape recorder off once and for all. _For all_ meaning just this weekend, but it’s a start. The cursor on his screen blinks, mocking his meagre attempts of whatever the hell he’s even trying to achieve. Clearly this isn’t working. He can’t bluff his way through this work, not like he could at the magazine. Someone will expose him as a fraud, maybe via his amateur knitting skills he has to show off tomorrow.

With a groan he buries his head in his arms. He’s too tired for any of this, now. Too tired to think about being found out. There’s a time for those thoughts and it’s clearly not now. The office around him is empty. There are some researchers who prefer to come in later in the evening, some guys from the labs work on things that are only “active” when it’s dark outside, not around them, only when the sun went down. However, most of the research floors are empty by now, nothing moves and nobody comes to find him. Martin sits here alone.

That is, until he hears the door open.

It’s a slow creaking that echoes in a way nothing really _can_ echo. Besides, none of the doors on this floor creak when they’re opened. Martin sits up straight, waiting for someone to call out.

The door closes with the same slow creaking it opened with. It falls back into its lock unbearably loud in the silent office.

Then, silence follows. No movement, no voice, no one.

“Hello?”, Martin calls out. “Is someone there? Sasha? Tim?”

Afterwards, Martin will not be able to remember the events clearly anymore. It’s not as if they happened in a clear way, not in any way the human mind can comprehend, but there was an order to it. This order starts with sound. The absence of sound to be precise. Martin’s question is answered with a deafening silence dancing around him in intricate patterns that spiral out of control in their centres. Steps cut through the silence, draws it closer and spreads it over the room all at once. Martin cannot hear the steps, he knows they’re there, he can hear their echo, but the walls throw the sound back and forth without losing any of it.

Martin finds himself standing, his chair fallen to the floor behind him. (When did he jump up? When did he decide to move at all?) And from the corridor emerges a man. He is tall, spindly with long blond hair curling in gravity defying patterns. His limbs look too long, but still fit his body, like someone took a picture of a regular man with fitting proportions just to lay a picture of… something else over it. It doesn’t fit. Can’t fit. The man’s body is too small for the horror underneath his skin.

“Ah”, the man says, “it’s you.” His voice echoes, his words overlap.

Martin grips the edge of his desk hard. He breathes through his mouth, forcing air in and out of his lungs in shallow breaths. There’s a headache boiling in the back of his head, but he shoves it down, keeps his shifting focus on the figure in front of him.

“Who…”, his voice comes out too high pitched, “who are you?”

The man laughs a distorted laugh. He holds out his hands, presenting himself – the palms are swollen, the skin bulging from whatever lies underneath, the fingers are long, nearly reaching the floor, sharp like weapons.

“I am not a Who, I am a What. Or rather I’m a How Many. I am a How Far. And How Long. How long can you go without sleep? How far can you walk before collapsing? How many turns did you take to land here?”

He laughs again, lifts his distorted hands to his face. It doesn’t stifle his laugh, rather amplifies it. Martin fights the urge to step back, just grips his desk harder, holding onto it for dear life. His breathing hurts by now. Every breath cuts sharply through his lungs, fills his body with edges of fractured figures, broken pieces that move on their own.

“Of course”, the man continues, “that’s not what you want. You want a name that can help you put me into one of your beautiful boxes. Things you know. Things you don’t know. Things you should fear maybe? But I do not fit those boxes. And I have no desire to. So for the moment, you can call me… Michael. It is, after all, what others decided to call me.”

“What…” Martin grasps for words, nothing really makes sense. He sees the swirling patterns in the man… the thing’s hair, follows them with his eyes against his will. “What do you want.”

It’s not a question. He cannot ask questions. It’s not his domain.

Michael grins, exposing too many too white teeth. They gleam sharply in the dying light.

“I am here to speak a warning. To you, lonely one. The Archivist spoke of you the last time we met.”

“The…” Martin swallows, recollects his words. “Our archivist? Here?”

“Hm…” The sound is distorted as much as Michael’s laugh was before. “No. It was _the_ Archivist.”

He stresses the word differently. The distortion leaves it be, lets it carry without stretching and echoing, it’s a word as heavy as a stone, sitting in the middle of a sentence too light to stay down.

“The only one”, Michael continues, “or at least the only one that counts. You surprised him, I have to say. And that, in turn, surprised me.”

“I… so…” Martin’s brain scrambles to keep up. This is unreal, this is insane. Maybe he’s just losing his mind. It feels like it, feels twisted, wrong, not strange, not really. There’s an odd familiarity to Michael, his movements, his voice. All this is real, all the distorted sounds and overlapping images, all the spinning patterns, all the fear he swallows down to keep himself breathing.

Martin has been through bad situations more often than he likes to admit. This is no different. It has to be. Otherwise, he’d surely lose his mind. So, he stands, his hands still clinging to his desk’s edge, and he reaches for the only clear sentence Michael has said so far.

“You… you wanted to warn me?” His voice is barely more than an audible breath, shaped into words against its will.

“Ah I see…” Michael’s eyes narrow. “You are rather lonely. But not… _Lonely._ Not yet.”

“What…” He clears his throat, his voice getting steadier the more he talks, the more he concentrates on the shifting figure in front of him. “What does that even mean?”

Michael laughs. It doesn’t hurt Martin to hear the echo anymore.

“Nothing. Nothing really. I am just here to warn you. You think you are lonely, you think there is nothing you can do against it. But you’re wrong. It’s you. The Archivist… wasn’t so sure before if you’re calling it to you. Or if you’re targeted. You have to forgive him, your arrival lined up just perfectly with… rather unfortunate events. Fog, to be precise. You must have noticed.

“Regardless, I simply taunt others. Helen and I are the same, though she is the one who plans. The Lonely, however, has more than two servants. And while the few other Watchers stand under the Archivist’s authority, not everyone follows his word. The twisted one does not. He enjoys his own schemes, has a Lonely servant follow his every order. Well, devotion is found where nobody thinks looking, it seems.”

Michael laughs.

“Watch out for the Twisted Watcher. I cannot warn you off the Lonely, and I will not try. However, there is one, who thinks himself smarter than all of us and we fear what he might try. Do not trust him.”

“I…” Martin leans heavily onto his hands. “Who… who is that?”

Michael takes a step back. “I do love to taunt humans, lonely one. Don’t confuse my nature. Even though my nature is meant to confuse and mislead. If you need my advice…”

A knocking follows his words. It comes from the corridor, echoes like his words do. Then a door opens. Martin cannot see it, just hears the slow creaking.

“Just knock on my _door._ ”

Michael is gone before Martin has a chance to run after him. His laughing mixes with the closing and locking of the door, it spirals higher until it dies abruptly with the clicking of the lock.

Silence follows, screaming, undisrupted, natural silence that engulfs Martin in a cold reality he hadn’t known he left until it came back for him. Under the weight of reality, Martin crumbles to the floor. His hands let go of his desk’s edge, his knees give in and he sits there, his breathing ragged, the hard-plastic wheels of his desk chair digging into one of his legs.

_I didn’t die. I’m hurting. I’m alive. I have to be._

The first word, Martin says, still breathing desperately, still on the floor on his hands and knees; the first thing he says is: “Please.”

He doesn’t know what he means by it, what he wants. But it’s the only thing his head comes up with. The only thing he remembers.

_Please stop this._

It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts. Not yet. Because he’s alive. He survived. And he can still go on.

Afterwards, Martin doesn’t know how long he sat on the cold floor. Just that his knees and his back complain when he gets back up and stretches. He checks his tape recorder for some reason, but it’s still there, it’s still off. His computer, on the other hand, is still on. He’s glad to have to do something else than think about what happened, so he switches it off, deliberately focusing on his movements instead of just following muscle memory.

“It’s okay”, Martin says with his computer shutting down and his bag on his desk, all set and ready to go.

“It’s okay.”

When he leaves, he turns to storage room S8 for a second. The sickly yellow door without a number is gone, instead there waits the same greyish door all the other rooms have. He opens it, but he finds nothing behind but an empty storage room with shelfs full of dust.

He leaves the door open, just a crack, then finds his way out and back home as quickly as he can while still telling himself that _No. I’m not running away. I’m tired. I’m just too tired for all of this._

♣

Mary Willison does not look like a conspiracy theorist. She’s a nice elderly lady with shock white hair and a warm smile, who keeps offering Martin biscuits and cake even after he declined for the sixth time. She calls him “dear” and compliments his little knitting project he brought with him (barely the beginning of a scarf, really). She tells him about the others they’re expecting with a fondness Martin admires. He’s the first one to arrive and Mrs. Willison is delighted with his punctuality. So much that she tells every next arrival “Martin is already in the living room” with a pointed look, but no real disapproval.

The next one is Katelyn “Katy” McKinley, who greets Martin with a hug. She brought her son’s beanie with her to show him in case he decided he wanted to make one, too. She also shows him a picture of her son, Johnathan, wearing it. Martin has to admit the little boy looks cute with it. But John is three years old with big brown eyes and soft cheeks, he looks cute in anything.

Evelyn Brown and Sarah Robinson arrive together. They bring news from their playdate group of hyperactive six-to-seven-year-olds. Apparently, someone Martin has never heard of had a child yesterday. He missed the child’s father’s celebration last night at the pub.

The last one who arrives is Molly Cunningham. She is about Mrs. Willison’s age and brings an entire cake for them, which vanishes into the fridge for the time being.

They’re all sitting in the Willison’s living room, with many yarn balls, knitting needles, pattern plans, and biscuits and tea on the knee-high table between the couches. Even though he has yet to decide on the beanie, Martin sits next to Katy, who works on… something. Martin is fairly sure she told him her next project was going to be a jumper, but she’s only just starting, so he doesn’t ask.

Pictures on the walls show nothing unusual; there are wedding pictures of Mrs. Willison and her (now dead) husband, children’s pictures, more wedding pictures this time of her only son and his (still alive) wife, a child Martin identifies as her grandson. Some pictures show the knitting group sitting together. Martin searches the backgrounds for suspicious yellow doors. Of course he finds nothing. Really, he is here for a reason other than his own enjoyment, he shouldn’t forget this.

“Excuse me, Mrs. uhm Mrs. Willison?”

Mrs. Willison just shakes her head. “Oh, Martin, dear, just call me Mary, this’ll get too stiffy otherwise.”

“I… I- yeah. I can… Ma-Mary?” He curses himself for blushing, but Mrs. Wil- Mary just nods for him to continue.

“Uhm… I was – you know? Wondering if you’d like to tell me more about your claims?”

“Well”, Mary’s knitting needles clink as she looks up, “I’m glad someone finally takes me serious.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake Mary”, Molly puts her needles down entirely, “there’s nothing there to explain.”

“I beg to differ.”

Katy nudges Martin just to whisper: “Oh, you started it.”

But before he has a chance to ask for any clarification, Mary speaks up again:

“There’s witchcraft out there. You cannot avoid it forever.”

Molly sighs deeply. “Whatever you say, little sister. Whatever you say.” She turns to Martin. “Mary has always seen things everywhere. The wasps’ nest was never just a wasps’ nest, the doors had to be tested, I do not see what any of it could help.”

Mary huffs. “Unbelievable. People here are too ignorant, there are things all around you, but you still refuse to look.”

“Whatever you say”, Molly chuckles, but Mary takes no offence from the … does it count as a fight? He decides that no, no this was no fight. Certainly not the kind of fight he used to have with his mother.

“Now, Martin, dear, this is rather wide, but all over the country, all over the world even, there are certain things.” She nods, her pause neither dramatic, nor intentional. “They’re no gods, but some people – witches – pray to them as if they were gods. And in turn they grant them witchcraft. It is rather simple.”

“Okay?” Martin’s knitting needles still, but Mary’s hands work on.

“Some witches are more powerful than others, it all makes sense. They use their witchcraft to collect fear and unhappiness from humans like us.”

“Uhm…”

“It makes them stronger. Of course you people at Leitner’s you’re not…” She shoots him an apologetic look. “You divide witchcraft into different categories, but I assure you, it is one hundred percent true.”

Martin spent his week with reading her claims of alleged witchcraft and has to doubt half of what she calls the supernatural are actually supernatural phenomena. They have an entire department for witchcraft, who left helpful notes on her cases. Some digging even revealed multiple of her claims were true – or at the very least plausible.

“Do you have anything to add to any current reports you sent?”

Mary hums, her attention back on her needles. “Just this one thing: Something’s coming. I know it. I just don’t know what it’ll be.”

Across from her, in her armchair, Molly sighs. “Mary, don’t worry the poor boy.”

“Oh, don’t worry yourself, Molly. He is perfectly capable of figuring out the truth.”

“I… ye-yes”, Martin says, “It’s my job to… uhm collect this kind of… thing. I guess. Mrs. – uhm Mary? Can you… I mean…”

She is, Martin has to admit, still not exactly the most credible source. Her claims are hardly rare and barely any of them help them find something of value for their research.

“How do you know all of this?”, he asks.

Mary chuckles before she, too, sighs. “Because I watched it unravel. There was an old friend of mine from further down south. We only ever saw each other once or twice a month. Then one day… she disappeared. And her parents had a new child, someone with the same name, in the same age, but she looked different. It wasn’t her. Except everyone pretended that it was. For some reason, nobody but me knew this… thing wasn’t her. The… thing knew that I knew about it. It always smiled when it saw me. I think it found joy in my fear. After that, it wasn’t hard to find out everything else.”

What follows is a deep silence like the first breath after nearly suffocating. Martin’s needles lie too heavily in his hands, the yarn feels all wrong, twisted, strange in ways it shouldn’t.

Mary puts her needles down and says while getting up: “Now, maybe some cake can revive this living room.”

Her words close the topic without further ado. If he wants more, he’ll have to stay behind for a while until he asks again and can maybe find more of the answer he’s looking for. He has to admit, he’s curious.

“O-of course.”

Mary vanishes into the direction of the kitchen somewhere further down the hall.

“Huh”, Katy says with a smile. “That was rather quick.” She holds out her knitting project to scan the clean lines she added.

“Uhm…” Martin fidgets with his own half started scarf. Why did he even decide on a scarf? He doesn’t _need_ another scarf, he already has about ten thousand all in varying degrees of completion and proficiency. Maybe, if they decide to invite him for the next time, if he’s not too much… well, himself, then he can really start on that beanie he’s not sure he wants.

“If we’re already on quick things, my son, Max – he’s in Primary 1 now, in Ms. Silver’s class”, Sarah says, clearly to give Martin a chance to understand what the topic is shifting to, “yesterday, he came home and announced loudly he wanted to skip P2 and start on his new P3 class right next Monday. Talking about quick.”

“How so? What happened?”, Evelyn asks, her needles restless in her hands.

“Oh his P1 class had to sit with the P3s while they watch a movie.”

“Ah”, Katy laughs, “that explains everything!”

It definitely explains nothing to Martin. So he asks and Mary, who currently slides a plate with a piece of cake to him and another one to Katy, sighs.

“People get drawn in quickly. Even children.”

Which does not help him at all.

“Ah”, he says, “of course.”

“The P3 class”, Katy says, scooting closer to the table and her cake, “has a rather popular teacher.”

“Popular?” Martin’s brain supplies a very inappropriate image of a good-looking bachelor in shorts and without a shirt, but with a crowd of happy children around him, flexing his tanned muscles in the sun.

“Yes, the children love Mr. Sims. And quite some parents share their gossip with him. Pretty often, actually.”

Martin’s fantasy dies with the name. Jon as a teacher is an image he is familiar with, but as a popular teacher? With both children and parents? Not so much.

“I have to say”, Evelyn practically sighs, “my boys always get into trouble, but that Sims always knows when to intervene. I swear he’s godsent.”

“Rather devil-sent”, Mary snorts as she hands Molly her slice of cake.

“Please, Mary”, she says as she accepts her plate, “Jonathan Sims is a perfectly normal human being with a big garden because he likes flowers. The children like him, the parents like him, he hates the tourists and can be a little awkward at times, but he’s not a witch.”

“You say that every time and ignore all the evidence you can find, but please”, Mary sits back down with her own plate, “let’s change the topic, we don’t want Martin tangled up in all of this.”

“Oh no, really. I didn’t- I don’t mind.” He smiles. It’s kind of what he came for; more stories about the spooky things going on around here. Of course, he doesn’t really need more gossip about Jon, but it’s a start. Regardless, the subject changes again, still lingering somewhat on school and children, but only for a short while. Then Martin catches up on the newest who-is-with-whom within the village (or maybe even from outside). Most of the names he forgets quickly, more even he just doesn’t know, so he lets the conversation flow naturally without his interruption. Only once he does contribute that the young “scandalously handsome” young man (it’s Tim, they know his name, but often refer to him as a rather suitable match for someone they know) is in fact single, which unfortunately brings the conversation to his own relationship status.

“So”, Molly says after a while of idle chatter and clinking knitting needles, “Martin, dear, you moved up here all alone, didn’t you?”

“Uhm…” Martin fixates on the stitches he dropped. “Yes, I- I suppose I did…”

“You know, I have a daughter around your age.”

Martin sputters, nearly dropping everything he holds all at once. She looks at him over the rim of her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. It’s the specific look someone has when they want to convey more than what they said.

“You know that’s- I mean… No?” He fumbles with his knitting. “I don’t really… uhm, not really looking, you know? Uhm… for someone… at least not at the moment- or in the… foreseeable future?”

He’s still debating just flat out stating he’s gay when Molly nods and says:

“Of course, it’s not my business to fiddle with other people’s relationships-“

“And if you try to”, Mary says without looking up from the jumper she’s knitting, “it only ever ends in a disaster.”

“Anyway”, Molly ignores her sister, “I’ll have you know, my son is bi and single, so if you’d rather meet him that’s perfectly fine. He is a little older, but I think you’d get on very well.”

Martin blushes deep dark red, his eyes still fixated on the movement of his hands. “Uhm… no, I’d… I’d rather not.”

“Just a suggestion.”

“I am… uhm not seeing anyone. Not, not right now, I mean. I don’t… it’s a lot. To move up here. On my own and uhm… yes.”

Next to him, Katy nods empathetically. “I only moved up here when I knew Max and I had a future with each other. I don’t know what I would have done had I been all alone here.”

Evelyn nods. “It can get rather lonely.”

Lonely. Martin shivers from the word alone. He’s not really lonely, of course not. He has Tim and Sasha, and he’s welcome in the village. It’s just that he… has nobody. He’s all alone in the world, all left to his own devices. There’s nobody to come back to, just others who occupy different places in his life. It wasn’t hard to move here from the city. Nothing had held him back, nobody to hold him, to tell him he’d better stay for their sake. There had just been Martin and his impossible expectations for the world. Finding someone like that in a small village like this? What should he do? Seduce some of the newlyweds and make them divorce their spouse for him? Oh please.

“It’s okay”, Martin says, smiling. “I’m thinking about getting a pet.”

He’s not really, but if anything it steers the conversation away from his relationship status and to Evelyn telling them her boys want a puppy, but they get into so much trouble she barely trusts them with a stuffed one.

♣

“And then she said you’re a devil-sent teacher, who apparently enthrals people to like you?”

Jon frowns at his sandwich. “What else is new?”

“The others seemed to like you, though?”, Martin offers more like an afterthought.

They sit at the small, rustic looking bookstore/café which also caters to newlyweds at this time of the year, but at least it stuck with a different aesthetic. Something lighter on the eyes. It’s a bookstore with small aisles twisting and turning like a well labelled labyrinth. Nobody can get lost inside. Outside and in the front, there’s a small café for coffee, tea, and sandwiches of which they both have one in front of them. Jon a cheese and cucumber sandwich, Martin ham and tomato.

“It doesn’t bother me, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Martin just took a bite, so it takes him a moment to chew and swallow before he can answer. “You seem to be a rather … uhm… particularly well-liked teacher… to uhm be…”

“Well-liked…” Jon clicks his tongue, his sandwich lies still untouched on his plate. He has his chin resting on his palm, while his other hand fidgets with his paper napkin.

“I mean… I- I like you”, Martin blurts out and immediately wants to take it back. He does not bury his face in his hands, but he can’t force his furious blush down. He already sat through an entire morning of Tim’s teasing.

“Do you have a date?”, he asked as Martin packed up all his things, getting ready to leave. And after Martins very patient “No, Tim, I’m just meeting Jon again” his face lit up with mischief.

“You mean _Yes Tim_!”, he called after Martin just as the lift doors slit close.

So now, Martin is sitting with his _friend_ Jon at a table in a cute café, both of them munching on surprisingly good sandwiches, and discussing other people’s opinions on literally everything. This is not a date. Martin would know, mostly because he usually makes a fool of himself on dates. More than usual. Jon isn’t even his type, he’s too small, still a little too prickly, and Martin can’t imagine Jon listening to his poetry (even if he never read anything aloud to any of his former boyfriends).

“Yes, you seem to”, Jon raises his tea to his lips, blows over the surface. “Your choice still baffles me.”

“You’re too hard on yourself. It’s not like you’re a bad friend. I mean, you managed to befriend Daisy if nothing else.”

“Ah yes.” He takes a cautious sip. “Then again, Daisy and I met under… difficult circumstances.” He raises his burned hand to his scarred cheek.

“Your uhm accident?”

Jon lowers his hand again without touching his face. “Yes.”

“Oh. Uhm. Okay?” Martin takes another bite.

He’s not getting anything out of Jon concerning his mysterious, but rather tragic “accident”. If anybody’s asking, he’s definitely not trying to get the information out of Jon. Martin is curious, yes, definitely, but he’s also a good friend (or he tries to be) and takes what Jon offers him. Only what he offers freely.

“Oh that reminds me!” Martin looks to his right and his left just to make sure there’s no yellow door around. He’s given up any pretence by now. Yes, the pond was empty, there was nothing there. But with more and more real statements, more trips to artefact storage and the labs, with the feeling of fog on his heels every time he so much as thinks about Finley’s statement, there’s no point in denying all supernatural experiences. Oh he’s still far from believing everything (he’s not even sure he believes Mary Willison), but that weird guy Michael? Yes, very supernatural, certainly.

“I uhm… I met someone. And I- I was wondering if you maybe might know them?”

Jon quirks one eyebrow. “Martin, I’ll have you know, I’m a terrible source of information for potential future romantic partners. If this person-“

“What? No!” Martin flaps his arms in front of him, only narrowly avoiding knocking down both their cups.

“No! By god, no! I don’t- I didn’t mean- No!”

Jon stays his calm and collected self, barely reacting to Martin’s outburst. “I misunderstood you then?”

“I- yes!” Martin takes a long, suffering sip from his green tea. If the way Jon avoids his eyes is any indication, he is just as embarrassed by the situation as Martin is. While Martin can’t see any blushing on his cheeks, he himself is bright red again. Just one time he’d like to not blush at all, one day maybe.

“Very well?” Jon makes his gesture for “go on” that looks more like he’s throwing away an invisible tissue then indicating any more interest in the conversation, but now, Martin knows what he means.

“Yes, well, I uhm”, he clears his throat. “There was a… there was someone at the centre when I stayed longer last Friday.”

“Someone at the centre? Martin, was he tall with slicked back hair and overall looked like a cliché villain?”

Martin shakes his head. “It wasn’t Elias.”

“Oh good.”

“No, it was someone… uhm something maybe? I don’t really know. He said his name was Michael, but… it didn’t… _look_ like a Michael?”

“Ah.” Jon leans back in his seat and finally turns his attention to his sandwich. “Michael Shelly. Yes, he works there. Though I’m not sure he’s been there for his regular work hours the last few… years maybe?” He bites into one half of his sandwich.

“It… he… excuse me?” _He works there? What?_

Jon shrugs. “Did you ask Tim about it? Or better even Sasha?”

“I… yes.” He did ask them. Right after the incident happened, via text, but that was perfectly acceptable. Sasha already wondered if he should write a statement about it, but Martin has no intentions to do so. Ever.

“And?”

“And they said, they don’t know him. I mean… Sasha said there once was a Michael, who was… uhm associated? With the doors? But he… he died.”

“Oh did he? Or is that what they assume?” Jon takes another bite, then says with his hand in front of his still full mouth. “This is really good, I should come here more often.”

Martin rolls his eyes. “It’s just cucumber and cheese, I can make sandwiches like that in a minute without you having to pay for it.”

“Yes, but you don’t.”

“I could.”

Now, it’s Jon’s turn to roll his eyes. “Martin I’m twenty-eight, I’m perfectly capable of making my own sandwiches.”

“Yes, but the point is”, Martin points to the table top, “we’re getting distracted. So you’re saying Michael, who went to explore the dangerous hell maze behind the yellow doors, is still alive?”

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that all you have right now are hypothesis without any proof. And before you ask: No. I don’t think you should go into the dangerous hell maze behind the yellow door.”

“I wasn’t gonna suggest that”, Martin lies. He thought about using the doors, just to see what was behind, but his curiosity didn’t reach this far. _If Jon has a plan or knows how to survive the murder hallways,_ he said to himself this morning, _then I’m considering it._ As it turns out, Jon does not.

“Good, because I’d rather not see one of my friends consumed.” Jon nods once, then goes back to his sandwich. And Martin grins. He grins wide around Jon’s words.

There’s a difference between telling someone you want to befriend them, and them really saying it. Sure, he texted Jon over the last week more than he texts any other person at the moment, he even called them friends in his own head. But hearing Jon say it? In his dry tone? Even if he wanted to, Martin cannot stop smiling. He’s smiling a lot, today.

“Is something wrong?”, Jon asks when he catches Martin staring, smiling widely. “Is there something on my face again?” Without waiting for Martin’s answer he feels his lips with the thumb of his healthy hand.

“Ah, no, no, don’t worry. I was just…” Martin shrugs, still smiling, his own sandwich gone. “Just thinking.”

“Thinking about?” Jon puts his sandwich down and wipes his hands on his napkin.

“I… uhm…” He shrugs again. This time, his smile drips off of his face. “I uhm I think I’ll… I’ll meet my dad soon?”

“Oh? Really?”

Martin nods. He thought about it. Thought about meeting with his father quite a lot. What would it be like? Would they get along well? Did he change over the years? Martin certainly did, he’s no longer eight, so that’s something. And maybe he could ask him about his side of the story. His mother always talked about him like he was the worst person alive, something Martin took up from her even after she moved to the nursing home. He doesn’t even know the man that is Harry Blackwood. Only knows what his mother told him, and her opinion was very biased if nothing else. Maybe he had perfectly good reasons for leaving. Maybe he’s not a “lying, cheating bastard” of a man, but rather friendly. Someone, who was in over his head, with an ill wife and a child he never wanted. Martin knows about this little detail, his mom was very vocal about how his father had never wanted children but then decided to go along with it for her sake.

Now, however, Martin is an adult. His father might not like children, but Martin is no child anymore. So hey, he thought, it’ll be okay. It has to be.

“I… yes, yes.” Martin nods, his only lukewarm tea in both hands. “It’s not. I mean we haven’t seen each other in twenty years, heh. So I think… I think maybe I just… I don’t really know him. I’m mad at him for, well, the last twenty years, but maybe… maybe it’ll be alright? He reached out to me just… well a couple of weeks ago and… and I called him back. Or texted him. Actually.”

Jon smiles. It’s a lovely, cute smile that sits loosely on his lips, every breeze could knock it off. But as small as it is, it warms Martin to the core much better than his tea could.

“I don’t know what happened between you and your father”, Jon says, still wearing his smile, “and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I think I… I mean… if I, if someone gave me the chance to see my father again, just for once, I, I think I would take it. Just to know who he is, to talk to him, to tell him what happened to me. I think… I think it’s good you were given the chance to talk to him. Maybe he, I _really_ don’t know, but maybe he’s nice. And if he isn’t, it’s, I mean you’re an adult man, you can just walk away.”

“Yeah”, he breathes the word, leaving him giddy from just talking about this. He’s not going to be the only one anymore. He’ll have more than just his mother, maybe more family to meet. His father’s parents maybe if they’re still alive. Aunts and uncles he never knew about.

Jon’s smile is still in place even though it’s so incredible fragile. Or maybe because. Martin wants to take it and put it in a box somewhere safe.

“Maybe your dad will call you, too, one day.”

He regrets his words as soon as he sees Jon’s reaction. He doesn’t _lose_ his smile, that’s not the right word for it. It _dies_ on his lips. Impossible to revive, lost and gone forever. Martin watches it wilt in seconds before it’s gone and Jon’s shoulders sag. While his usual façade is rather stoic, this right now is the very opposite. He doesn’t frown, doesn’t even turn his lips, he just gives up all tension. All strength that held him up the entire time leaves him, dies with his smile, and Martin fights the urge to reach out for his hand. Just to hold it, hold Jon.

“I wish, Martin. I wish I could tell him what happened.” Jon’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Martin still hears his every word clearly. They’re strung together by a thin threat of regret. It burns itself into Martin’s brain, makes a home in his heart and squeezes until he’s not sure he’s breathing anymore.

“Or my mother. Just for… for a day to talk to them and tell them what happened after they died. All those little things and the bigger picture.” Jon turns to look at his burned hand. “I wonder if they’d be worried. Or not.”

“Oh… Jon…” Martin reaches out, takes his burned hand into both his hands. Jon looks up, his eyes brown like anis stars. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

But Jon shakes his head and pulls his hand back. Martin lets go of him as he feels the first gentle tug.

“What… What would you tell them?” Another something Martin has been thinking about for the last few weeks and will keep thinking about until next week when he’ll actually meet his father.

Jon hums. “Everything. Just… everything. I think they… I imagined them to want to hear about me, when I was a child. Maybe ask them if they would have done anything different. I”, he blinks himself back into the moment, “this isn’t really anything you want to hear, I think.”

“Yes, Jon, it’s okay, I like listening to you.” It’s not even a lie. Jon has a rather pleasant voice Martin enjoys quite a lot.

He snorts, which still sounds somewhat melancholic. “If you like listening to me this much, then you probably won’t mind me telling you about the nonsense the Brown twins got up to this week. I swear, one day I’ll have to suspend them for something stupid like…” He makes a wide gesture. “Teaching Ms. Silver’s class swear words.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sarah Anderson is the woman who works in Leitner's centre  
> \- Sarah Robinson is part of the knitting group  
> \- Clubs is the author who can't name ocs because it's hard and I know like 3 English names, so if anybody has an assortment of names I can use for other people: Please save my pathetic life and share your endless name knowledge
> 
> This chapter was the worst to write so far, far worse than all the other chapters combined, worse than writing Elias, and I have no idea why
> 
> Next up: hope, fog, and loneliness


	10. How to get lost when you’re tired … and lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loneliness, fog, and hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: lonely typical depression, child neglect, child abuse, suicide mention, self-harm
> 
> This chapter is that lonely it made my WiFi commit suicide and I had to have some internet company person come over to fix things, so if you want to skip all the bad stuff just stop at the first ♣
> 
> Thank you to everyone who ever wrote a comment on this! With my WIFI down I tried to answer comments via my phone, I didn't get far, I never know what to say, but one day I'll answer all of you! One day!  
> And thank you to everyone, who gave me name suggestions! I used them for more characters than just the villagers, some of which you'll meet at one point... [cue ominous sounds]

It takes Jon only five minutes to coax Astrid Robinson out of the toilet stall where she hid from the Brown twins, but she still clings to his trouser leg as she waits for her mother to pick her up. Her braids are coming undone and the way her friends crowd around her and pat her back comforts her just as much as pulling on his trousers seems to. Clara and Sabrina wait on his other side, not quite touching him, but very much in reach in case the situation calls for adult safety. They’re watching the playground like hawks, following their classmates running around, playing tag most likely. School days usually end like this, while the class runs around for one last game, Jon waits near the narrow entrance to the elementary schoolyard. He keeps an eye out for his pupils, their parents, but also whatever else might watch. (Not only things the fears send for their own feeding, but also humans, just as dangerous.)

“Mr. Sims?”, Clara says next to him. She doesn’t turn towards him, just reaches with her hand in his general direction and feels just an inch too far right for his leg.

“Yes, Ms. Anderson?”

Jon is glad for Clara to stay closer to him. Weeks ago she found a nest of Jane Prentiss’ worms and Jon had to find the equivalent of Sectioned Officers for parasitologists. He succeeded in finding someone who was able to not only rid her of the worms, but also her mother just to be sure.

Clara turns around, finally finding his leg with her hand, then looks up at him and lets go immediately in favour of pointing to the playground.

“Simon is gone.”

“Hm…” Jon scans the playground. “Is he?”

Of course, he’s not. He’s hiding in the bushes right behind the vegetable garden the last Primary 5 class planted, waiting for his brother to lead one of the other children close enough to jump out and scare them. Unfortunately they chose Julian Walz as their newest target, whose English is still as good as you can expect from a six-years-old who moved here barely two months ago. While he has a remarkable way of making himself understood with his peers and often enough manages to stumble through some garbled English-German-mix, he seems to not grasp what Derrek Brown is trying to tell him.

“Yes.” Clara nods and next to her, her friend Sabrina gasps dramatically. It is, of course, just the normal gasp children do when they reach just about any conclusion, but it sounds still very dramatic.

“He ran off!”, she says, grabbing Clara’s arm.

“He did not run off, Ms. Harrington”, Jon says. Astrid still clings to his leg, but she’s looking up again, her braids in disarray while she and her friends watch the playground, looking for the allegedly missing Simon Brown.

“He’s up to no good”, Astrid says. It’s what most of the parents like to say about the twins. They have a “we against the world” mentality Jon has seen in quite a few Hunters, but those are two boys who watched one too many cartoons and liked the villains too much, and not the next Hunt Avatars this village sees, not if he has any say in it.

Jon hums. “You might be right, Ms. Robinson. Would it be alright with you if I left you in the care of your friends for a moment, just so that I can look for our Mr. Brown? Please remember; you have a choice and No is a perfectly fine answer.”

Astrid takes a second to herself. She looks up at Jon and Jon sees the uncertainty in her eyes before she takes a look at the playground, then at Sabrina and Clara only half obscured by Jon’s legs. Her two friends, Allison Ashton, who Jon has to constantly remind not to put pencils in her ponytail, and Kenneth Windley, whose parents finally let him use the girls’ uniform after Jon sat them down to a talk, they both take Astrid’s hands when she lets go of his leg.

“Yes”, she says then, “I’m okay, Mr. Sims. Thank you.” She smiles, still a little wobbly, but there’s enough distraction going on that she forgets about the hole in her tights right on her left knee.

“Very well.” Jon nods. “I trust you to wait for me right here.”

They all nod, but Jon doesn’t leave them out of his eyesight anyway. It’s rather hard to leave his eyesight in general. For something as small as watching his pupils while walking across the playground, he doesn’t even need a third or fourth eye, it’s not too much information for his two regular eyes. Anything beyond the gates would be, but he’s not interested to know which parent is the next one to arrive. So he walks brusquely, quickly crossing the distance between him and Derrek Brown, who still talks to Julian in slow, but loud English.

“Mr. Brown, Mr. Walz”, Jon says when he reaches them. “Is there a problem?”

Both boys look up to him, but while Julian simply points to Derrek with a helpless “What?”, Derrek finds his shoes much more interesting than a talk with his teacher.

“Mr. Walz, if you’d like to, you can play a little more until your parents pick you up.” Jon concentrates on the words for a moment. His built-in translator works mainly one direction, but if he turns his attention to the Beholding itself, it presents him the right words in the right language just as easily.

Julian’s face lights up and he nods enthusiastically. When he runs of with a quick “Thanks! Danke! Thanks!” Derrek makes an attempt at escaping, too. Too bad for him, his teacher serves the god of being in everybody’s business.

“Now”, Jon says, his full attention on Derrek. “Let’s fetch your brother from his hiding spot.”

With one hand on Derrek’s shoulder, Jon leads him straight to the bushes and bends down roughly to Simon’s height.

“Mr. Brown, it might be time for you to come out.”

The bushes rustle, but Simon does not come out. Next to him, Derrek mumbles an unconvincing “He’s not in there”.

“Mr. Brown, I have to inform you that I can no longer delay a talk with your parents about your behaviour at school.”

“What!”, the bushes scream. Derrek shoots them and then Jon a betrayed look.

“You can’t do that!”, he says.

“I am afraid that I can. You see, the other pupils do not appreciate you playing pranks on them. And I can and will not excuse bullying in my classroom.”

The twigs right in front of Jon part and Simon Brown comes stumbling out from between the leaves. He’s dishevelled with twigs and leaves in his blond hair, his eyes wide and pleading.

“Now, let’s go back and wait for your parents. I believe your father will pick you up again.” He holds out both his hands and each boy takes one, though still grumbling under their breaths as he walks them back to his former waiting spot.

Clara and Sabrina waited impatiently and only need a quick nod from him before they run out to play until their parents make an appearance. Astrid and her entourage stay close, but only relax again when he directs the twins to stand at his other side. All three of them have been subject to the twins’ bullying at one point. They pull on Astrid’s braids and hide her things, they kick Allison (though they stopped pretending to be the victims when she fights back), and kept calling Kenneth “girly” for wearing skirts rather than trousers. It puzzles Jon that the twins can see him wearing his skirts without any whisper, but then turn on their classmate this easily. He is, of course, an authority in their lives, while Kenneth is simply someone at their mercy.

 _Cruelty,_ Jon notes, _develops early._

He nods to passing parents, listens to gossip and news (still gossip) they bring over. While the Eye loves fear and suffering, it adores gossip even more. He doubts he could feed it with just gossip, but it’s a nice snack and keeps him sane most of the times.

“I believe, your father arrived”, Jon says as soon as the knowledge slips into his mind. “I will walk you over and have a quick chat with him.”

The boys grumble half-heartedly but follow obediently. In his back, Allison sticks her tongue out. Ethan Brown, the twins’ father, still has a somewhat pleasant smile when he approaches them; it leaves as soon as he sees Jon accompany his sons. His face twists up in silent disappointment.

“What did they do?”, are his first words when Jon reaches him. His eyes stray to his sons who occupy themselves by kicking thin air in front of them, pretending to not see him.

“Mr. Brown, I think a conversation about your sons’ behaviour at school is long overdue.” Jon has to look up at him to see his face. Why does he only have to talk to tall people? He doesn’t shrink the more he leans into his role as the Archivist, he checked. It’s just that people around him are too tall.

“I s’pose so…” Ethan sighs. “There’ll be a letter?”

Jon nods. “Of course.”

“Right then. C’mon boys.” The twins grumble, Simon’s lower lip wobbles in his silent fight to hold tears back. “Mr. Sims,” Ethan nods once, “Really sorry ‘bout it.”

Jon shakes his head. “Don’t be, we will figure something out.”

He watches the three of them walk off, the twins pulling on their father’s trousers, not yet babbling or crying, for now they’re a little shocked that their actions have consequences sometimes. Though Jon didn’t lie. He would like to find a solution everyone can agree on, something that keeps the boys from picking on their classmates but doesn’t set them apart from their peers. Less punishment and more a lesson in being good people. After all, he became a teacher for a reason. Contrary to what Melanie thinks, that reason is not “torturing children”.

He’s rather fond of his class, actually.

He returns to the waiting hands of Astrid, who proceeds to pull at his trousers. Jon finds himself increasingly glad to actually wear those and not the skirt with the elastic waistband – he’s pretty sure Astrid wouldn’t even notice if she pulled that down with her insistency.

“Mom!”, she calls just as Jon returns and as he turns back around, he sees Sarah Robinson with her little son Max propped up at her waist. She’s waving with one hand, while Max is opening and closing a (probably empty) box that clicks as the lock slides into place and clicks again when Max opens it.

Astrid jumps up and down (luckily letting go of Jon). “Mom! Mom, you will never guess what _happened_ today!”

Sometimes he thinks this child should spend less time around her mother’s tea companions.

“Alright, alright.” Sarah takes her daughter’s backpack as soon as she holds it up. “Hello, Mr. Sims.”

“Ah, hello Mrs. Robinson”, Jon nods to her, then to Max in her arms. “Hello, Max.”

Max’ head wipes around as Jon says his name and immediately reaches out with both hands for him to hold him. His little box still in one hand.

“Uhm…”, Jon says.

Max is only four, and as far as Jon knows in Ms. Silver’s Primary 1. He watched over her class exactly once, but it’s hard to forget names, ages, and faces as the literal embodiment of knowledge.

“Ah, sorry, sorry”, Sarah says. She hands Astrid’s backpack back to her complaining daughter, then tries to shift Max in her grip, but the little boy fights her attempts vehemently. He squirms and whines in her arms, still somehow managing to keep hold of his box without hitting his mother with it.

Jon readjusts his bag’s strap. “I can… uhm…” He gestures with both his hands in something he hopes conveys his willingness to take the child from her, but doesn’t quite reaches them for her to have the chance to pull away. She doesn’t.

“Oh, yes, please”, she says. And dumps the still wiggling child in Jon’s arms.

He’s startled for a moment (no, he doesn’t drop the child), but Max stops squirming in favour of burying his free hand in the front of Jon’s jumper. He nods once, a childish mockery of Jon’s nod when he goes through the attendance list in class, then he grins up at him and giggles.

“Well…” Jon says. “Hello there.”

Max beams, then finds new ways to entertain himself with his box while still holding onto Jon’s jumper. Sarah shoulders her daughter’s backpack all while Astrid babbles about the twins’ current predicament of Jon talking to their parents. Her friends sometimes add some details she left out, but her mother just nods along, sometimes finding time to talk to one or another parent, who finds their way over to them on their quest to capture their children.

Just as Kenneth’s father pulls him away, one last goodbye on his lips before he’s gone, Sarah turns back to Jon, who more or less contributes to the short conversations parents spike up with him before droning on with the Eye’s favourite sweets: gossip.

“Oh, did you know who came to our knitting group last week?”, she asks while trying to coax Max to let her pick him up again.

Allison chooses this moment to gasp audibly and point to the playground entrance. Most of the pupils are gone by now, there are only so many things parents can talk about and in a small village, news travel quick and far carried by many tongues.

“Mr Sims!”, she pulls at Jon’s trousers again, “There is someone!”

Sarah Robinson uses the short distraction to pluck her son back and Jon lets her. Max is too confused to do more than make a startled noise before his mother has him back in her arms.

Jon turns to the approaching figure. “Yes, it seems… yes.”

It’s Martin. Jon recognises him immediately. He waves, a big smile on his lips and next to Jon Allison waves back. _She knows him,_ Jon suddenly just _Knows_ , _because her grandma is his landlady._

“Ah, perfect timing”, Sarah says. “Just as I was talking about him.” She waves Martin, who is already on his way, over to them. He falls into a short jog that doesn’t really bring him closer much faster and just serves in getting him out of breath.

“Hello there”, Martin breathes as he reaches them, his cheeks bright red.

Sarah smiles pleasantly, but Jon can’t rid his face of his confusion.

“Martin?”, he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“I”, he takes a deep breath, rubbing his neck with one hand, “I left the office a little earlier, you, you know? Had nothing really to do, right? And, uhm, the, the school is right on my way.”

Jon scowls. “It’s not. You don’t pass the school on your way to work.”

Martin’s flush creeps higher on his cheeks. He fans his face with one hand. “I mean… uhm, I know you don’t… you don’t have a car. Thought I could pick you up? After work?” He finishes on a higher note, uncertainty etched into every syllable and every hesitant movement of his hands. He never really stands still. One moment he fiddles with his bag, then he twirls his fingers, then he goes back to rubbing the back of his neck.

Next to Martin, Sarah shoots Jon a wide grin. “Well then, I’m off. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Sims!”

Jon has barely any time to answer, Sarah is gone too quickly; she just stops to wink in his direction for a second and pretty much hauls her daughter with her.

His frown deepens. Okay, here is definitely something going on he doesn’t know about.

“Mr Martin!”, Allison says next to him. She’s the only one left, probably because her grandma is picking her up again and she usually comes late enough for the first P4 pupils to come spilling from the building.

“Oh, hello Allison.” Martin smiles uncertain. “I… how, how was school?”

Allison looks up at Jon, then back to Martin and to Jon again before she leans forward a little and whispers loud enough for both of them to hear: “Boring.”

“Excuse me?”, Jon says and Allison giggles into her hands.

Martin shoots him a smile. “I’m sure it wasn’t. Right, Allison? Jo- Mr. Sims’ classes can’t be that boring.”

Allison’s grandmother chooses this moment to make an appearance and steal her attention from Martin. Jon doesn’t even have time to scowl at the world, who seems to have a knack for sudden interruptions today. If he didn’t know any better he’d have suspected the Web to be behind it all. He does, though. There’s nothing supernatural about Allison calling out for her gran and running up to her with one last goodbye to both, Jon and Martin.

“Well…” Martin says. “There she goes.” Then he turns back to Jon. “Ready to head out as well?”

“I… yes. Sure.” Jon pulls at his bag’s strap a little, just to have something to do with his hand while walking next to Martin back to his car. While it isn’t the only one here, not by a far stretch, Jon instantly knows which car is Martin’s. It’s a Citroen C3 in a nice black and some dents around the back. The car is small and roundish and has a friendliness to it no car should be allowed to have.

“Well…” Martin fiddles with his keys, already blushing again. Jon frowns. He didn’t do anything to embarrass him, not yet. Or did he? They didn’t talk on their way here, so it couldn’t be something he said.

“Do… do you have a place in mind? Somewhere we can… uhm… eat?”

Jon opens the car door. There aren’t that many places to go out for food unless they really want the generic pizza place that’s mandatory for every city with over ten inhabitants. The next city has an amazing place for Turkish specialities he sometimes indulges in. It reminds him of his grandmother and the rare occasions of family reunions or weddings, but he’s not about to suggest that. It’s some drive away and he’d rather not have to deal with translating dishes to Martin. He seems like a nice guy, Jon likes him – yes, he was surprised himself! – but this is not the time.

“We can drive back to mine”, he says instead. “I’m sure I have something edible at home.”

Martin splutters. “I- n- yes. Yeah. Sure. Cool.”

He takes his seat behind the wheel and Jon sits next to him, closing the door before Martin. He fiddles with the seatbelt as much as he fiddled with his keys. Jon turns his brain upside down and then inside out. Did he say something weird? Was it weird to suggest going back to his for lunch? It’s not as if he has any great chef skills to draw from, but if he remembers correctly, he has some leftover lasagne from yesterday. It is, he has to admit, aubergine lasagne with artichokes and spinach, but if Martin prefers to have meat with it, he can still fry up the leftover bacon from Daisy’s visit. It’s not like he eats it himself and it’s a waste to throw it away.

While Jon wonders, Martin starts up the engine, his cheeks pink and well on their way to red.

“We don’t have to”, Jon says, still unsure what he did wrong. “If there’s somewhere you wanted to go, that’s fine with me.”

“No, no, no worries!” Martin huffs a laugh as he drives off the school’s parking lot. “I’m just, just a little nervous, I guess.” He tries to laugh, but what comes out is closer to a sigh.

“Feels like my job’s getting to me”, he mumbles, his head turned away from Jon to check the crossing to his right.

“Getting to you?” Jon reaches out to the Eye. The world is full with knowledge, clues strewn all around, strings tightly slung around humans, walking and breathing, while unbeknownst to them the Fears and their Avatars plan and scheme and play their games.

Martin doesn’t belong. He has potential, Jon knows about his… closeness to the Lonely. It’s not really there, not ready to grab him and keep him, yet. Nothing else has a claim on him. Not even the Eye, who keeps an eye out for all Leitner employees (pun intended).

“I guess”, Martin turns around again and Jon lets go of his patron’s connection, “this job is just draining. Supernaturally so.”

Martin laughs again, this time it’s a real laugh that rings of joy. Jon doesn’t find it in himself to be annoyed about the bad joke or the naivety Martin brings to a table full of Fear and danger. No, Jon is just pleasantly endeared. Martin is less accustomed to the supernatural than his other friends – if he can already call him friend after such a short time. Most of his friends back in London lived through the chaos at Magnus’ library, and even Sasha and Tim, whom he only met after moving here, are somewhat connected to the Fears.

Even if they categorise them in all the wrong ways, as ghosts, and apparitions, and werewolves. The last time Jon heard someone use the category “werewolf” for something Fear related was during his time at the library when the guy Elias’ actually chose to become the new Archivist mistook a horde of Hunt Avatars as bloodthirsty… well… werewolves. Funnily enough, that guy’s name had also been Jonathan, though he went with Jonny, a decision, Jon never understood. He, of course, died when Elias’ tried to go through with his half-baked plan. His body still lies buried under the brick stones in the tunnels underneath, twisted and torn to pieces. A fate he wishes neither Sasha, nor Tim.

“Did something happen?”, he asks to be certain.

“Oh the usual…” Martin shrugs. “The demonology department still worries about the upcoming changes.”

Jon hums. “I thought there was a statement about nobody losing their job?”

“Oh there was, there was. But the demonology guys think they’re special.” Martin rolls his eyes. “They say they have a collection of multiple cursed holy texts from all over the world. And if left unattended for too long they could wreak havoc all over the world.”

“Cosmic horrors, as unrelated as they are to religion, still have an incredible high power when in writing.”

Martin glances towards him. “I don’t doubt it. It just seems like an unnecessary fear. The books and scriptures are contained in artefact storage, nothing ever leaves the centre.”

“I suppose they simply fear for their jobs then, as Leitner’s word isn’t as set in stone as it might seem.”

“Probably.” Martin sighs, then his lips turn upwards. “Now, enough of my job. How was school?”

“Pleasant. Though I have to admit I’m not looking forward to the conversation I have to have with Mrs. Brown.”

“Oh, so you finally decided to do something?”

“Decided to do something?” Jon makes a disapproving tsk-sound. “Martin, I always do something, it just so happens that I see no solution for the current situation that does not involve the twins’ parents.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His smile is evident in his voice. “Last Saturday, Evelyn told me she’s surprised you put up with them this long.”

“Maybe, if she had decided to teach her children some basic manners before sending them off to school, I wouldn’t have had to _put up with them_ for as long as I did.” He holds up one hand to keep Martin from answering. “I know, I know. It’s not my place to judge their… uhm… methods. It’s just that Evelyn Brown has… her attitude towards her children is…”

“Actively harmful for other pupils?”, Martin suggests.

“I was going to go with _laissez-faire,_ but yes.” He sighs. “Of course, they aren’t the only ones I sometimes… worry about.”

Martin nods along while Jon talks about his pupils and the subjects they covered today. Just some idle chatter, nothing about grades and actual performance, nothing he isn’t allowed to share. Martin nods and makes helpful noises while Jon goes on about school books and his lesson schedule.

“If you want to know about dumb scheduling”, Martin parks his car in front of Jon’s cottage, “you should talk to Elias. He keeps turning up in the worst possible situations.”

Jon hesitates. He unbuckled his seat belt already, the door stands open, but he doesn’t get out for a long moment. Martin doesn’t notice, he gets out and the door slams shut barely a second later.

“He’s like a piece of chewing gum under your sole.” He waits for Jon to get out as well so that he can lock his car.

“Oh believe me”, Jon mutters under his breath, “he’s worse.” He finally drags himself out and closes the door behind him for Martin to lock up.

“I mean honestly? He’s just so… him? Every time he looks at me I have this weird feeling.” Martin shudders.

“Yeah, you’re not the only one.” Jon takes the lead this time, and Martin follows him through his garden. He’s distantly aware that Martin keeps talking, but his eyes catch on some flower buds he needs to water sooner rather than later, and some low growing herb that doesn’t get enough shade.

“I mean honestly”, Martin says as Jon unlocks the door, “I still don’t know what he wants? He comes over and asks us what cases we’re currently working on, then we tell him we can’t just give out information about ongoing cases, and he just smiles and nods as if we gave him what he wanted? He’s so… he’s so weird!”

Jon opens his mouth to explain. _Well, he has some limited mind reading powers, so he probably gets some answers anyway. Other than that, nobody really knows what his deal is._ He doesn’t say any of it, just closes his mouth again.

Even if Martin were to believe him, this conversation would take an uncomfortable turn as soon as he asks how Jon knows all this. He doesn’t mind telling Martin about the library, about what happened to him, but remembering – retelling – the consequences of Colin’s unfortunate discovery and Keara’s painful death because of it, that’s something he doesn’t want to. It wasn’t his fault, it never was, Elias’ barely paid attention to him, barely knew he was there at all. But the Eye knew. And it had him Know about what happened in every gruesome detail.

“Well”, Jon says instead, closing the door softly, “make yourself at home.”

“Oh…” Martin stops for a second. All movement lost he stares down at Jon, his cheeks still pleasantly pink. They are darkening again oh so slowly, Jon imagines he can track the deepening with his human eyes. He looks back up.

“Is everything alright?”

Martin splutters back to life like an engine someone pushed to its limits and a little further. He looks the part, too. Run over by a simple question.

“Yes! I- yes! Perfect! I’m- I should”, he gestures to his shoes, “Take off my… my shoes.” So he does.

Jon frowns. He said something weird again or maybe he did something to upset him. With one finger he traces his lips, but it comes away clean so that’s not it.

“Yes! Done!” Martin nudges his shoes closer to Jon’s boots and dirty wellies next to the door. Jon nods, slips out of his own shoes as quickly as he can without falling, and leads Martin in.

“Take a seat, I’m getting everything ready.” Jon points to the dining table.

The kitchen opens into the living room in such a spacious wide arch that he fit an entire table in between. It’s rarely used, only when Daisy brings Basira, and Georgie and Melanie visit at the same time. Otherwise he sits at the kitchen island (on it, really), and his friends have taken to sit close to him when he cooks.

Martin doesn’t sit down. Instead he speaks up again as Jon makes a beeline to the fridge: “Ca-can I help you?”

 _He’s a guest,_ Jon tells himself. _The correct answer is No. No, Martin, it’s okay, just sit down, let me get everything ready._

“Sure, set the table, will you?”

_Well fucking done, Sims. He probably just asked to be polite._

Martin’s face lights up when Jon points to the cabinet with his assortment of mismatched plates and cups. He wears a surprisingly relieved smile Jon lets himself indulge in for a second longer. Maybe Martin didn’t really ask just to be polite, maybe he, too, likes to have things to do and be useful.

It takes them just minutes to get ready. Jon fishes out the vegetable lasagne and gets it into the oven efficiently. Martin sets the table far neater than Jon ever did in his life. Or any of his friends ever did, really. He chose two plates that are both plain white – one because Jon never cares for patterns and what he puts in his dishwasher, and one that’s just white.

“What do you want to drink?”, Jon asks.

He stretches to reach the shelf Martin was eye to eye with. His own mug stands closest to the edge. It was a present from Georgie. A white mug with cat ears sticking out on one side and a handle formed like a tail. Brown eyes, a brown nose with brown whiskers look at him from under the ears. Melanie told him she wanted to find one with a speech bubble that says his name, but they neither found any without the h in Jon, nor did it look as cute as without.

With his own mug in hand he looks back to the table where Martin is standing unsure if there’s something else for him to do.

“Tea would be nice”, Martin says. He smiles again, but it’s not the same as it was before.

“Okay”, Jon says and moves to his electric kettle, “you can pick a mug.”

The smile from before is back on his lips before Martin even reaches the shelf. He takes a side look at Jon’s mug, then turns back to his assortment of mismatched tea services.

“Any mug?”

Jon shrugs. “Yes, if you don’t find one you like, you can use mine?” He lifts his cat mug. “It’s clean, I didn’t use it yet.”

“No…” Martin chews his bottom lip. “Uhm, I’m just… I’m just going to take this one?”

Jon switches the kettle on before turning back to him. The mug he chose is a plain blue one with no pictures or patterns on it.

Jon nods in approval. “Yes, Basira’s mug.”

Martin’s mouth drops open in a perfect O.

“I didn’t know!” He shoves the mug back in before pulling out another one. The next one is striped with colours in different grades of fading.

“It’s fine, Martin, you can take Basira’s cup. She’s not here to use it, is she?”

“I…” He clears his throat. “I suppose not.”

Behind Jon, the kettle clicks off on its own. He holds out his hand for Martin to hand him his elected mug.

“Are you okay with simple green tea?”

“I... yes!”

Jon looks up for a moment. Martin is writhing his hands, stretching his fingers, fiddling with his cardigan, but he says nothing about it.

“Anything else? Milk? Honey?” He holds up his sugar dispenser. “Sugar?”

“Oh, no thank you.”

“There you go.” The cup is steaming, the heat of the tea seeping through the ceramic right into Jon’s hands. It only hurts when it reaches all the wrong places where his skin twisted up worse than on others, but Jon doesn’t say anything, just hands Martin his cup.

Martin grins when he settles in his chair at the table. There’s nothing else to do for him while Jon brings their food to the table and sits down himself.

“So, is this now my mug?”

“If you want it to be.” As far as Jon’s aware the mug doesn’t belong yet. And it’s not as if it’s a crime to drink from different mugs every time Martin visits him.

“Maybe.” He takes a sip. “Thank you for making lunch.”

“Oh, don’t mention it.” Jon shrugs, the movement jostles the food on his fork and it falls back onto his plate with a wet splat. “It’s leftovers.”

“It’s good.” Martin grins around a forkful of spinach that sticks to his front teeth.

It is, Jon notices, in no way endearing. Spinach just does that, it’s what happens with poppy seeds, too, it’s disgusting and takes an unholy amount of teeth brushing to get rid of. So it is, in no known universe, endearing.

But Jon can’t stop himself from smiling. He leans forward, rests his cheeks on his left hand for a second, just to smile and indulge in the moment that tastes warmer than the food he reheated.

“I’m glad.” Then he points to his own teeth. “You have spinach stuck there.”

Martin splutters. His blush returns in full force Jon has only seen when he invited him to the rose café. This time he knows what he did to get that reaction. He keeps his smile until Martin’s blush lessens to a subtle pink high on his cheekbones.

_See this Georgie? I can make friends. I’m perfectly fine company._

♣

Martin doesn’t call his mother on Friday. He can pretend he’s okay after those calls if it’s just work, if he just has to sit behind a desk and look through fake horror stories. He cannot pretend to be okay when he goes out to meet his father after twenty years of complete silence. Although considering that he’s changing his shirt for the sixth or seventh time today, he’s not entirely sure if calling his mother would have made any difference.

He’s nervous. Of course, he’s nervous. He has earned the right to be nervous about this. This is his first real day off since he moved here and it’s because he’s meeting his dad. The father he never had, the person he coursed and begged to come back throughout his entire childhood. He should wear something impressive, something that leaves an impression. Something like the shirt he’s currently wearing probably because he’s already running a little late.

“I can do this!”, Martin says as he buttons up his jacket. “We’ll have a nice chat, talk about what happened to us in the last… twenty years, and then… well…”

And then?

Martin closes the door with a resolute thud and turns the key violently enough for the little charms on it to sound like an angry wind chime.

And then everything will be okay. Because that’s what this all is about. To make things okay, to make them right. He meets his dad to get some answers, to catch up, to have some family. After today, Martin won’t be alone anymore. There’ll be someone he can reach out to, someone who can give him the kind of advice he lacked while growing up.

His mind set, his key in his hand, Martin steps out of his building and takes a deep breath of fresh morning air. He chokes on it immediately.

It’s an overcast day. What little sunlight makes it through the barrier of clouds is feeble, barely enough to nurture life, barely even alive itself. It gives everything a greyish shine, a layer of dust obscuring still seeing eyes. The air tastes dry, empty, like the breath of long dead lungs forced to breathe out one last time. Everything about this day is hostile, the light bears a promise of death, the air is stale, even the faint smell of rain is subdued by the sharp cold the water promises to bring.

As soon as he’s in his car, he turns the heating on. Still, the cold clings to him, seeps through his clothes and into his skin to settle somewhere in his chest, around his heart that jumps and shivers and stutters at the prospect of who he’s meeting today. His blood brings warmth as much as his car heating.

“This is it”, he says to himself as he drives through now familiar streets that lead him away and out of the village.

They agreed on meeting in the middle rather than Martin having to drive over to Coventry or his dad all the way to Scotland. It’s still a drive of more than two hours. Time Martin doesn’t know what to do with except for concentrating on driving to keep his thoughts from straying to his impending meeting.

Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it had been good the way it was. Maybe he should just turn around and drive back home and forget it. And he’s not even that alone. He has Sasha and Tim, and the knitting group that accepted him as a reoccurring member, and he has Jon who makes surprisingly good vegetable lasagne.

Jon told him this could be good for both, him and his father. And Martin can’t say with certainty to be convinced or to be glad someone said what he wanted to hear. Truth be told, he _wants_ to meet his dad. He wants to talk to him, to joke with him, and maybe find a parent in him. He’s twenty-eight years old, he doesn’t need someone to mother him, but he wants to. Nothing he’d ever admit, but on a drive of multiple hours from Scotland to some town between here and Coventry, he can admit it to himself.

He really wants a parent. Or just family. He’d be okay with someone calling him family.

It’s the bare minimum he strives for. A word. An admission of belonging. He doesn’t ask to be kept safe, doesn’t expect any help, wouldn’t take it even if it was offered. For now, he’s setting himself up for the bare minimum. It’s okay. It’s fine.

He doesn’t cry during the ride. He really doesn’t. He’s close when he arrives and just doesn’t find a parking spot. But he manages. He parks somewhere a little further, just walks back to the café he’s about to meet with his father in.

The weather here is significantly better. It’s pleasantly warm, some bees swirl around the flowers in front of the café. It’s not pink and doesn’t bring roses with every piece of cake someone orders. Just an ordinary café that sits in a small side street with a steady stream of people passing.

The inside is as stereotypical as it can possibly be. There’s a lot of wood on the walls and the ceiling, low hanging light bulbs, a bunch of students nursing their coffees in front of glaring laptop screens. Martin orders himself a nice cup of Darjeeling and sits, tea cup in both hands, at the corner in the back of the café that gives him a perfect view of the entrance area. This way he can see his father before he sees him. It doesn’t really give him any advantage, but Martin feels better this way. So, he sips his Darjeeling.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

When his father enters, Martin nearly jumps. Harry Blackwood is a man not tall enough for his width, and with a receding hairline Martin hopes he has not inherited. Other than that there’s no denying this man is his father. They both have the same light brown curls (even though his father’s are streaked with grey already), the same heavy bone structure that gives them their broad shoulders, maybe not the same, but a very similar facial structure that leaves Martin with the weirdest impression of having seen something disorientating. He can’t see himself in his father, there are still distinct differences marking them as different people, but the resemblance is uncanny.

Then Harry Blackwood spots his son. He fidgets with his hands for a moment, then gives the tiniest of waves.

Martin waves back, composed and cool – he hopes – while his head erupts in anxiety. What does he even do? Should he get up? Introduce himself? Oh he’s coming over already! What now?!

His father reaches the table, standing next to the empty chair across from Martin.

“I uhm…” He fiddles with a hat in his hands. “H-hi. I’m… It’s… it’s good to see you.”

It sounds like a question. And Martin finds himself asking if it really is. He’d never say it out loud, too shy, too quick to please, but it’s oh so much harder to lie to yourself when a thought already popped up.

“It… it is”, he says instead. With one hand he gestures to the chair next to his father. “Please, you can… uhm sit? If you’d like.”

“Yes, yes.” His father unbuttons his coat, sets his hat on the table – it’s wet and leaves rainwater on the polished wood. “I… uhm… I’m going to buy myself a coffee… then… uhm… we can…” Another gesture to the table and – in extension – Martin.

“Er yes, that, yes.” Martin nods, tries to smile, but it doesn’t sit quite right on his lips, hurts somewhere at the edges, digs in a little too deeply. His father doesn’t notice. He takes it as encouragement and goes to get his coffee.

The line is rather short, the barista rather quick and in no time Martin’s dad sits in front of him, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. Silence engulfs them, buries them under thick layers of unspoken words. Martin sips his tea, his father turns and turns and turns his cup in his hands. It’s one of these paper cups to go.

“So”, Harry Blackwood says after a long silence Martin doesn’t dare breaking.

“So”, Martin echoes.

“I, uhm, I’m glad. I’m glad I found you, Martin. It’s… I… I missed you.” He smiles a small, private smile Martin barely catches. It holds the melancholy of missed chances and old regret. And it’s gone as soon as it came.

From somewhere, the depth of his oldest dreams, the smallest dreams really, to hold someone’s hand, to hear someone’s praise, Martin finds the courage the speak up:

“I guess so. I was very… uhm… surprised when you called me.” His voice is small, so very small that Martin has trouble hearing himself over the beating of his heart.

“Yes, that’s…” His father – his Father! – smiles. It’s bigger this time, stays on his lips far longer. “That’s normal, I guess. Haven’t heard from your old man for years and now?”

Martin nods. “It’s a lot.”

There’s a lot to talk about, a lot of questions to ask, so many things Martin wants to know. Why did he leave them? Why did he leave _him_? Why did he never check in on him? And what happened to him afterwards? Are there relatives? Others who might want to meet him? There’s not enough time in the world to ask all the questions Martin has. Not enough time to hear all the answers he wants so badly. So they take the easy route. They ask _What’s new in your life_ even though everything is new to them. They ask _How are you_ and _What’s important._ They dance around each other in intricate patterns that make Martin fear every question he asks and every answer he gives brings them off course and leaves them off tact. So he does what he does best: He listens and encourages others to talk.

His father, he learns today, enjoys talking a lot. It’s another thing they have in common, except he talks about different things, about things Martin doesn’t really understand.

Harry Blackwood works with his hands. He works with metal and machinery that forms and melts and cuts. He talks of millimetres he misjudged and things he had to redo because they had to be six millimetres in width and he misread it and made them five. He talks about one of his colleagues – Marcus – who knows someone for everything and has a contact everywhere. That very colleague, who told him about the magazine. He brought it from London, a souvenir to laugh about those conspiracy theorists, who go down the unused underground stations and follow maintenance tunnels while talking about ghosts and aliens. It was there that he found the name Martin Blackwood calling out to him and shoving the contact page into Harry’s face. He called them, they handed out Martin’s phone number (something Martin is fairly sure they should not have done to anybody, not even his father) and now?

“Now, we’re here”, his father concludes.

Both their cups are empty by now, Martin found himself a new tea mix he wants to try as his next cup.

“Now, we’re here”, he repeats. “But I work in Scotland.”

His father shrugs. “So? That’s a nice place to work, you said you liked it.”

“I do, I do…”

“And”, his father grins widely, “you’re the real deal. A what? Parapsychologist? My boy went to university and got himself a degree. That’s an accomplishment! I’m proud of you, Martin.”

The words fall like pebbles in an otherwise undisturbed puddle. They hit and sink into Martin’s mind, the smallest of intrusions causing bigger and bigger waves. What a beautiful lie this is. For how long did he wish to hear just that? To hear someone tell him they’re proud? Hearing it now, it’s a bastardized version of what he longed for. And it stings like a wasp’s stinger left in the wound for too long, like all his fears and hopes bubbled up in one needlepoint right above his heart and pierced him, speared him on his own wish turned against him.

He’s proud of him. Because Martin pretends to have a degree even though he never finished school.

Martin smiles. “I think I’ll get another tea, should I bring you another cup of coffee as well?”

“Oh yes please.”

On his way to the counter there’s the sick feeling of wrongness brewing in Martin’s chest. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he’ll come away more hurt than before. Or maybe it’s his fault again. Maybe he shouldn’t have put his trust in a man he barely knew.

When he returns with their orders – another cup of coffee and his tea – his father thanks him and slides his phone to him.

“I have a surprise for you. You know, because it’s been a long while and things change of course, but it’s a good surprise.”

Martin hums and takes the phone. It shows him the picture of a pretty woman, around his father’s age with a wide brimmed hat on greying black locks and a smile like the sun. She stands at a garden fence in a long yellow dress, her arms resting on the fence post, smiling into the camera.

“What do you say?”, his father asks.

“Uhm… sorry to what?”

He nods towards the phone in Martin’s hands. “Her. Her name is Grace.”

“She’s pretty?” He’s not entirely sure what he wants.

It seems to be the correct answer. His father grins and holds up his left hand. On his finger glints a golden wedding band.

“Grace Blackwood”, he says, pride dripping from his every word, “Your stepmother.”

“Oh.”

It’s the only thing Martin can say. The only thing he can think. _Oh._

Grace Blackwood is beautiful. She has an easy happiness to her smile that Martin envies. Maybe she’s someone who never had to live through hard times or maybe she just hides it better than he ever could. Whatever it is, Martin can’t quite shake off the desire to compare her to his mother. This is the woman his father chose instead.

_What’s different? Why did he decide to stay with her but not us?_

Petty little thoughts. His father didn’t want children, so maybe they agreed on this while he and his mother fought about it. His father enjoyed travelling (another thing his mother complained about) and maybe Grace liked to go on vacation, too. There doesn’t even need to be a Why and Because, maybe the truth is easy. They just click. They are a good match. Maybe that’s it. But Martin doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to know.

“Best thing?” His father reaches out over the table and swipes through some more pictures of his new wife. They have a garden it seems. He must have taken those pictures during summer.

“There!” He stops, and Martin lifts the phone a little to see the picture clearer.

There are five people sitting on old iron garden chairs. The two in the middle, leaning against each other, smiling happily, are Grace and his father, the other three are much younger. Even younger than Martin. Two boys and one girl. The girl looks the oldest, around twenty, maybe nineteen, while both of the boys are clearly in their teens. They all smile, they all hold up their respective beverages. What a happy little family this is. What a beautiful dream.

“Marcus took that one”, his father says cheerfully. “Now, let me introduce them.” He motions for Martin to put the phone down and slide it closer to the middle for him to see the screen, too. He does so and his father points to the girl.

“That’s Avery, our oldest, she’ll be twenty this year. This is”, he points to the boy next to her, “Matt, Mathew, he’s seventeen now, and this one”, the last boy left, “this is Henry, our youngest. Just turned fifteen this month.”

Harry Blackwood grins widely, so very proud of the new family he built himself, so very proud of leaving behind old ballast to find something new and easier and better.

“Avery thinks about going to university, too, wants to study English maybe. You can give her some tips, some things to look out for.”

Martin nods. “Sure.”

“They’d love to meet you, I can tell. Were all excited when I told them I found their brother.”

And Martin nods and smiles.

“You have to come over and visit us sometime. It’s a drive, I know, but Grace makes amazing casserole, you have to try it and you’ll never want to eat anything else. She is great.”

And Martin nods and smiles and hurts.

His father keeps talking, babbles on like a waterfall, unstoppable in its current and uncaring for who’s trapped underneath. He has a new wife and new children, a new family, a new life. What a picture-perfect world he paints with his words as he talks about graduation, about first bike rides, about playing with the boys in their garden. All while sitting in front of the son he left. The son he never found the time to play with, never taught how to ride a bike, never once clapped on the shoulder after a long day. Oh how he loves his children, how proud he is of them.

And Martin can’t find it in him to resent these children. They live a dream he never dared to dream. He grew up wishing for the smallest things, for a hug, an acknowledgment, for less pain that coloured his days. And now he sits here, listening and hurting.

He doesn’t ask any more questions. He doesn’t want to know any more from him. And still he talks on. Still, his father smiles and laughs and asks.

“What about you?”, he asks, “Any plans for children?”

“Not yet”, Martin answers.

“What about marriage?”, he asks.

“Not yet either”, Martin answers.

“Now, Martin, I know I wasn’t really around, but don’t you think you should settle down soon? Have a family?”

 _It’s not your place._ “Maybe.”

“I know, your mum and I, we didn’t give you the best role model for a healthy marriage, but trust me, Martin. Marriage brings stability with it.” He grins. “Maybe I can introduce you to some people? I have co-workers your age? The metal industry is a male dominated field, but there are some nice young things around, if you catch my meaning.”

Martin does, unfortunately. “Ah no, no, I uhm, I have someone. We haven’t talked about marriage yet, but uhm, maybe? In the future.”

The lie doesn’t hurt him. Not half as much as it should. It’s just… his father doesn’t feel safe to talk to about this. Mary’s knitting group? Oh sure, he can be as gay there as he wants. But his father? He’s… not sure. It doesn’t feel like something he wants to share with him. So he keeps talking. Stirs away from the lie.

“Besides, I sometimes babysit my neighbour’s cat. And I can barely keep her from destroying my sofa. How would I get on with children?”

He laughs. It’s a forced laugh that cuts through his throat, catches on his teeth and comes out more wheezing than he intended, but his father takes it. His own laugh overpowers Martin’s easily.

“Oh don’t worry, it comes with time and practice. Let me tell you, it’s hard to be a good father, but you’ll learn in no time!”

 _Only took him twenty years,_ Martin thinks. He doesn’t know what to do with the things his father tells him now. Doesn’t know if he wants to hear about Matt’s tantrums when he was a child and how his father handled them, or about Avery wanting to maybe move in with her best friend.

“One day”, his father says with a nostalgic smile that turns Martin’s stomach, “you have to let them go their own way. And that’s far more painful than whatever they threw at you when they were teenagers or toddlers.”

“Mhm.” Martin can’t speak. It’s… hard. He smiles and nods and hurts so badly he might cry. But he forces his tears down, swallows the tightness in his throat and chokes on his own helpless anger. He lets him talk. Lets him wallow in his old stories about children he was there for. Martin sits through his bragging, his jokes, his open admission not to know anything about how his wife managed to put them to bed when they were still toddlers. Not once falls his name. Not once follows a story about him. Not once can he laugh honestly.

“Well then!” His father says after some time. “It was great meeting you, Martin! I hope we can do this again in a while!”

Martin stands, his latest cup in one, his jacket in his other hand. “Of course.”

His father holds the door for him, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let me walk you to your car.”

“Ah, no, I didn’t find a spot on the parking lot, I had to drive further out.” Martin points into the vague direction of his car.

“Sure!” His father holds out his hand, his smile wide and blatantly happy. “We’ll be in contact?”

Martin takes his hand. He’s still smiling, _he’s still smiling._ “Sure.”

And they part. His father walks off to his car, waves one last goodbye, and Martin moves away, too. What a nice chat, what a nice man. What a painful smile, what a painful afternoon.

His car still waits for him where he left it. The shadows stretch around him, the sun already dipping behind the highest rooftops. Nobody calls him back. Nobody tells him this was all a joke, nothing real, just a trick. When Martin gets into his car, the seats await him with a coldness he doesn’t expect. Just like the morning air back home, he can feel the coldness reach out to him, wrap itself around his skin, then seep into his body like a sharp razor blade searching blood.

_I didn’t ask him to give money for mom’s nursing home._

Martin starts his car and drives away with the heavy realisation that his father wouldn’t want to give him money for his mother. Not even if Martin was down to five pounds and nothing else. He’s alone with this. Will always be alone with this.

And what does he need this family for if they won’t help him out? Isn’t that what a family is for? A helping hand? He can hardly ask his father’s wife for money, not like this, not for this.

His new wife. Martin’s new stepmother.

Why did they even marry? Why did he leave them for… her? And then they have children! Three happy children laughing and joking and just living the life Martin’s father – their father – took from him. Why didn’t he take Martin with him when he left? Why did he decide to just have new children?

Martin drives. He’s careful, knowing too well he shouldn’t let his attention slip because of his emotions, but he just… he can’t. This isn’t right. This isn’t _right._

His father has three too many children for someone who didn’t want any. Or maybe it was just Martin. Maybe he just never wanted _him._

He was always a good child, never got into really bad trouble. His mother even said he barely screamed when he was a baby, that was one of the things she liked about him. And he was silent, and shy, and quiet, and all the other things adults complimented him for. He was a good child. So why was he not good enough for his father? Why didn’t he take him with him? What did he do _wrong_?

Or maybe it wasn’t anything he did. Maybe he just didn’t want him because he was… well… himself. It wouldn’t surprise him, actually. His mom never wanted him around either. He cared for her, and made her food, made sure she took her pills, helped her clean herself, helped her up and down the stairs, and never screamed. Not as a baby when he woke up at night. And not as a teenager when she grabbed and twisted him under her too strong hands and too angry eyes. He never complained and hid all those marks, all those hurtful aches under too big, too loose shirts.

How could a father that never knew him love him, if the mother he cared for and loved with every fibre of his being never did? What did he expect? A family? Someone to pat his head and tell him it was never his fault?

Yes.

Oh by god, yes. He wants someone to tell him he can let go now. Someone to come into his life and wipe the tears from his face and hold him close, close enough to warm him even on the inside, even in his heart.

Somewhere, in the depth of his mind, he keeps a secret memory that never happened. A daydream he clung to when he was too tired to hold his tears back, too desperate to keep his hands from ripping open his own skin, too lonely to remember there were other people in this world. And now, on empty streets on his way to a home that has yet to become a home, now he remembers it again. His father had a washed out face in it, something non-descript, something unreal, because over time Martin forgot. He has a face now, clearer, but he doesn’t want to add it. Doesn’t want that man in his head just yet.

In his dreams, he is at the beach with both his parents. His mother is not sick yet. She’s healthy and happy and alive. And his father is with her, smiling and just as happy as they all are. The sea has a beautiful blue hue that reminds him of glass pearls, and his father gifts him a bracelet with these pearls. It’s one of those overprized bracelets from one of the tourist traps around, and his mother makes fun of him for buying something so expensive. She’s teasing, but not hurtful. She helps Martin put it on, ruffles his hair with a grin before pulling out a picnic basket. It’s soft and warm and his dad plays with him afterwards. It’s all perfect. It’s all a lie.

In his dreams, Martin is eight years old again, and nothing bad has ever happened to him and nothing will. He’s a child deserving of love and happiness and he’s safe. In his dreams, he has a family. In his dreams, he doesn’t know how to use his mom’s old make-up to cover bruises on his face from schoolyard bullies and his mother’s hands. In his dreams, he talks and people listen. In his dreams, he’s never hunched over bills he doesn’t know how to pay because he’s only twelve, he’s never trying to recall who hurt him – a bully, his mother, maybe he did it himself? – while pressing a bloody tissue to a wound that reopened, he’s never strong. In his dreams, he’s always safe.

Martin would give anything – his present, his future, his life – anything for a happy childhood.

Out on the streets, it starts to rain, but Martin barely sees it through his tears. The rain is light, it starts like still drops in the air, like morning dew waiting for him to pass and then fall down. The world waited for him to pass by, waited for him to come back to the places in his mind that hurt the most just to soak it all up. All this wrongness, all this desperate longing for warmth, all his pains. The rain, of course, doesn’t wash away any of it. Just amplifies it, makes his aches grow worse, and his breath sound erratic.

The rain brings fog with it. It comes slowly, gradually. There’s some fog waiting at the side of the road as he drives, some more then, some more. Until the fog grows thick in front of him, a white wall with gradients of grey mixed in. He drives into it, hits it without any sound, with no resistance whatsoever.

The fog swallows him whole.

Martin can still see where he’s driving, the road is still clear safe from the fog and the rain. He has no umbrella with him. If it’s still raining when he gets home, he’ll get soaked from just the three metres to his door. But does it matter? There’s nobody waiting there for him. Nobody to tell him not to drip on the carpet, or to ask him how things went, or to make some tea for him. Martin is all alone here. And he will always be alone. How could he find any soul that found joy in his existence if his parents never did? How can he keep going like this if his very presence on this world is unwanted?

When did the world become this lonely?

His tears drip from his chin like rain outside. The fog seeps through the cracks around him, finds a way through his car doors. It fills everything, floods the floor at first before licking up his legs. The chill it carries follows. Ice on his abused body, cooling his pains and aches until his skin is numb and useless. This time, however, his skin tingles with the fog’s touch. It crawls higher and higher with a steady pace.

Martin drives, eyes still crying, his cheeks raw and stinging, but his eyes on the road. The fog passes his lips and he breathes it in. It’s cold on his tongue, dulls his nerves immediately. Even in his lungs the fog doesn’t warm. It spreads through his body, follows his veins, shoots the dull numbness through his arms and legs and deep, deep into his chest until all he can feel is the far away aching of mourning himself.

He’s barely more than a phantom, a shadow between raindrops, easily washed away. If he could just be like fog at all. Dissolve under a touch. Fall apart without a care.

Oh, but he cares. He always does.

He wishes he didn’t. He wants to be selfish for once, wants to ignore other people’s problems and turn his care inside. Just something small, something insignificant that belongs to him and nobody else. Just for a moment he wants everything he never dared to ask for. The expensive chocolate his mom never bought him, the barbie doll the girls in his kindergarten group played with, the colourful yarn that was smooth to the touch and made him pick up knitting. He wants to go on vacation with his money instead of paying his mother’s bills, to buy himself a new laptop that can actually run the program from work, to sit down for an entire day and indulge in too much awful fast food his mom threw after him whenever he brought it home.

Martin doesn’t realise he’s entered the village. Darkness fell around him somewhen during his drive back home. He’s too caught up in his own head to notice. The deep white fog that dulls his mind slows his thoughts down and carves out all the little things that make him Martin. His heart beats when he pulls up in front of his apartment building, but he’s left a husk, a hollow vessel breathing fog and loneliness in the empty streets around him.

Even here, the fog is everywhere.

So what now? The village is empty. Martin knows deep within him that nobody is left out here. The houses and flats, all the lights he sees are an illusion. And even if they aren’t, nobody wants him around anyway. He wouldn’t want to bother people just pretending to enjoy his company. Empty smiles and quick glances to the clock, unspoken questions of when he will finally leave. Martin can’t take those today. Not now. Never again.

He leaves his car, the rain beating down on him, fog pooling around his feet. It reaches up with thin white tendrils clinging to him like stubborn cobwebs. He can’t shake them off. He doesn’t try to.

At home – in the flat he calls home even if it’s just a space the world carved out for him, just a place he’s allowed to store his things, pushed between the ribs and spines of a building he doesn’t belong to – at home, he’ll sit down and drink the last remnants of the rum he bought for some dinner he accidentally burned like all the others. And he knows he still has some of his mother’s pill bottles somewhere between his things. Sleeping pills; the strong sort for the nights her pains kept her up. Martin isn’t sure how many of those are left, but he can make use of even a few. He’ll just take them all, if it’s just three or thirty left, his rum will wash them down. And if he’s lucky he won’t wake up tomorrow. He won’t be hurting like this anymore.

Just for once, he’ll be selfish and take the only thing he has left; his life.

He should be scared, should be afraid of his ideas, of the places his mind runs to. But, oh, the world burns and bites and kicks, and Martin is so very tired and so very cold. There’s nothing left to warm him up ever again. There’s nothing left for him at all.

And as he takes the first step forwards to the front door, his hand fishing his keys from his pocket, there’s a second someone, just a figure in the rain, just a silhouette obscured by fog, right in front of him. But the village is empty, it’s deserted, he’s here all alone. His mind plays tricks on him. Who would even care if he was gone? Who would even stand there out in this cold, in this rain?

Martin comes closer, his mind still comfortably numb, dulled by grief for a life he was never allowed to live. In the rain, half underneath the small roof over the front door and half still in the rain, there stands a figure.

Jon looks up at Martin and the only thing Martin notices is that he’s wearing a long skirt that doesn’t quite reaches the street. Good for him, the hem would get all dirty and crumbled up. His sweater is too big on him. This time, Martin thinks, it’s not meant to be like that. It doesn’t look like he wants it to be big. Rather like Jon is too small, too thin to fill the sweater. He holds an umbrella with an old faded floral pattern. The rain hits it in a rhythmic pattern that reminds Martin of an anxious heart, racing in its panic.

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice is so small, so quiet. Far too quiet for this loud world, and it echoes nonetheless, it’s loud enough, clear to understand. But Martin can’t answer. It hurts to talk, it hurts to know there are other people around. The lights around him are real, are bright and hide real humans behind glass windows. Martin can’t comprehend life beyond fog.

Jon takes a cautious step forward, slowly, so very slowly, he extends his umbrella, stretches his arm to make sure it covers Martin, too. It’s not big enough for both of them. Jon’s shoulder gets all wet and dirty if he keeps holding it like that. Martin doesn’t say anything, just stares down at him and Jon stares right back up. His eyes are piercing, acidic green, they burn through him until nothing is left but fog and empty loneliness that filled him to the brim and clings to his very being.

“I can see you.” It’s more than what he says. It means more. It has to. His voice rings through Martin like a force, vibration that makes his heart stutter, makes his breath catch in his lungs filled with damp and fog. It’s the only thing aside the numbness, the only thing that shakes him.

Nothing is real, except for Jon’s voice. His voice and his hand he stretches out towards him. His touch burns and hurts and screams in a chaotic swirl of reality. Long dried tears swell up in his eyes, long quieted sobs wreck his body. He’s freezing, how did he not notice how cold he was?

Jon lets out a sigh Martin doesn’t catch, he’s too confused, too far inside his own head, too lonely, still. So instead of waiting for any coherent answer, Jon pushes him forward, away from his building and his flat he can’t quite call “home” yet. Out to the street again, the umbrella over his head like it holds off more than just rain.

“Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Warm tea, tears, and a helping hand


	11. How to find your way back … home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A helping hand, tears, and warm tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: lonely typical depression, mention of child neglect
> 
> It's far less than in the last chapter because things get resolved here, this is more on the level of Martin's phone calls with his mother, if you want to skip it just start at the first ♣

Jon’s garden is free of any fog. It’s a funny thing to notice, but Martin can’t focus on anything else. This is important. The way Jon’s cottage and his garden are both free of fog, how the thick white and grey clouds stop just shy of his fence and part when Jon steps through himself. The fog, Martin thinks, is afraid of him. As much as it clings to Martin, it recoils from Jon’s presence alone. What a funny thing to notice. What an impossibility.

On their way from the village over to Jon’s home, Martin breathes out fog. With Jon so close he can’t breathe it back in. Every exhale is tinted white, every inhale thins out what remains in his lungs. Again and again, Jon turns to him, watches him, makes sure he’s still there. Martin holds onto the umbrella, brushing Jon’s hand now and then, not quite holding onto him, not quite here yet.

By the time they reach Jon’s porch, Martin’s breathing lost all grey and white that formerly stuck to him. Jon keeps his eyes on him while he unlocks the door and pushes Martin in before shaking the umbrella dry and leaving it outside. Inside, not much changed. There are two tea cups on the little table in the living room. One is Jon’s cat mug, the other one a deep green mug with red toadstools on it.

The soft warmth that greets them is too much for Martin to handle. It burns on his frozen skin, sinks hooks of molten metal through his limbs to rope him in, to consume him whole. But Jon doesn’t let him back away, just pushes and tugs him forwards, leads him to his couch until Martin sits willingly.

The couch is soft, too soft for Martin’s beaten up mind. It’s big enough for him to lie down on it and stretch out without having to curl in on himself. But it’s so soft, it’s too soft. He sags into it, all tension leaving him in an instant, one last breath, one more exhale, then he sits, still, unmoving. Hurting. He can’t believe he deserves something like this. A warm room, a soft couch, it’s all so much, it’s all… nice. It could be comfortable if he wasn’t so sure he didn’t deserve any part of it.

Jon comes back with a different mug – he left? Ah, typical. He didn’t even notice someone leaving him until they come back. Until it’s his move again to accept. He does. He accepts the mug Jon hands him. Martin opens his mouth to thank him, but all that comes out is a soft shuddering exhale. Oh, he can’t even do _this_ right. Not even this. Whatever this is. Tea, probably. Yes, the tea in his hands is steaming. Its warmth seeping through the mug right into his hands, up his arms, up and up and up. It smells sweet, fruity with a hint of milk and honey.

Opposite to him, Jon settles in a beatdown armchair, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. He looks comfortable. He belongs here.

“Martin.”

Jon speaks his name like an incantation. Like a magician discovering a new wonder. An absolute, an undeniable truth, as if everything comes back to his name. And still… he speaks his name like he is dead already. Lost, not yet forgotten, but gone. A life, formerly loved, still loved even, but lost all the same.

Martin looks up, finds Jon’s eyes, still gleaming an iridescent green cutting through the fog and the numbness. His eyes are fixed on him, expectant. And he doesn’t know what he waits for, what he wants him to say. So he remains silent.

“What happened?”

 _I don’t know._ He doesn’t say it. It’s the wrong answer, it’s always the wrong answer. He’s supposed to know. People don’t understand how he doesn’t know what he feels himself, they want answers from him, that’s why they ask. _But I don’t know._

“Oh, Martin…”

There’s no disappointment in Jon’s voice, no anger in his words. Martin looks away, down into the cup of tea he still nurses.

“Martin?” Jon’s voice is barely above a whisper. “ _What’s wrong_?”

And the question is more than it should be. It means everything, in a moment that has no meaning on its own. Jon’s voice is so soft, so gentle, it dries Martin’s tears before he even knows they’re falling again. His words wrap around him, hold his face until everything breaks away in a shuddering intake of breath. Martin can’t keep the words from spilling from his lips.

“I hate him”, he says, his voice trembling, “I think, I hate him. You… I told you my father decided to contact me after twenty years. Twenty years of silence. That’s… heh… that’s a long time, right? That’s just too long for any normal father-son-relationship. But I thought it would be… it would be fine. I was obviously wrong.”

Martin sighs.

“I never really knew my dad. He was around until I was eight, before my mom’s illness got too bad for her to handle it on herself. What I remember of him is, well, mostly emotions. I think I was happy when they were still together. At least nothing bad happened. I was a child back then, but even I knew they had a… somewhat rocky relationship. There was never loud screaming or insults, nobody ever threw things. But they usually only talked when I was involved as well. During dinner, when watching TV, those times. I… maybe I was one of those children meant to save a marriage by simply existing. If I was, it didn’t work. I didn’t do my job that well.”

Martin’s laugh is strangled and dwindles down to a painful sob as he covers both his eyes with one hand, his tea still in the other.

“See, that- that’s just it! I’m so bad at everything I do! I can’t do anything right and that’s… He left me. He left us all alone!”

He’s not quite screaming, his voice swells, gains volume, just short of shouting.

“My mom is sick. She’s been ill for as long as I can remember. And when my grandmother was still alive she would tell me about how happy she was I was there, how much she loved me for being her grandson. My mom had always been… weakly. Never really strong enough to make it through a month without some bad days. So my gran thought she’d never have grandchildren, because my uncle can’t have children, and my aunt doesn’t want anything long lasting. So yes, I was her only grandchild and she was _happy_ I was there. And when… I didn’t know how things would change after she died. I didn’t know.”

His voice falls again, folds into itself.

“My gran died. And the funeral was the last time I saw my aunt. She stopped visiting because why should she? She never wanted to commit to anything and her mother was sick – not like mine was, but in an old kind of sick, the sicknesses that come with age. So she helped her out and when she died, well. Why should she stay? Besides, the year my gran died was also the year my mom’s illness got really bad. And that’s the fun part, isn’t it? Because the first day my mom wakes up and finds she is too weak to walk the stairs anymore even though she did it yesterday just fine, that was the last day I saw my dad. He said goodnight that evening, told me not to worry about mom, told me everything was _fine._ ”

Martin laughs. It cuts and skitters and hurts his heart.

“I was eight back then. The next morning, I wake up and he’s gone. No note, no word, just vanished. And things, things changed afterwards. My mom became weaker and weaker every day, and instead of a few bad days a month, she only had a few good days.”

Martin holds the tea mug with both hands, clings to it like an anchor.

“Nobody came. Nobody ever checked up on me. Not my aunt or my uncle, definitely not my dad. I… I received a package once. Divorce papers. Mom signed them and… well, I never heard of him again. And she only spoke of him in bad ways. The same way she talked about me, really. Still does. She’s… she’s my mom. But I… I think she… I don’t actually know, but I think she… she hates me. I think she hates me just as much as she hates him. And isn’t that funny?”

He doesn’t laugh.

“One part of my parents just didn’t like the responsibilities. The other part just… didn’t like me. And I think… I think I… I didn’t…”

Jon takes a breath like he’s the one bracing himself for something. Then he says: “Say it, Martin. It’s okay, just _tell me._ ”

The words break him. Martin breathes and shivers, his tears drip into his tea.

“I think, I didn’t deserve that. I think… I- I think, I… I deserved be-better than that. It was… it wasn’t my fault!”

His tea cup falls to the floor, emptying the rest tea onto Jon’s carpet. Martin’s hands shoot up to his eyes, wiping away tears and pressing his palm to his mouth to contain the violent sobs that wreck his body. He wants to apologise. He wants to speak, to tell him he’s sorry, to tell the world he’s sorry for demanding more than it gave him, but he can’t. For all his talking before, for all the words that wrung their way out of his lungs, he can’t speak up anymore.

_I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Jon. Your carpet, the tea’ll stain it. And I’m sorry I’m crying. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being a bother, for being too much, for taking up too much space. I’m sorry. Please don’t, please._

There is a warmth on his side, gently insisting Martin lean into it. He gives in readily, turns towards it, buries his face in the softness of Jon’s jumper. Jon’s hand reaches over his shoulder and strokes his hair gently.

“It’s okay, Martin”, he whispers.

 _It’s not,_ Martin wants to say, but Jon’s voice is full of reassuring warmth that seeps into Martin’s body, it holds him close with more than his physical presence. And he wants to believe him. Even if nothing else is real, if nothing else is true.

They sit there for a while. Maybe for ten minutes, maybe for ten hours. The world could end around them for all that Martin cares, he wouldn’t move. Can’t, really. His tears are still there, soaking the collar of Jon’s jumper, while Martin tries and fails to keep his breathing under control.

Slowly, just breathing in until he can’t anymore, then breathing out until there’s no air left, then repeat. Jon’s hand in his hair helps ground him, tethers him to the present. Every time he wanders too deep into his head, Jon tugs at his hair. Never enough to hurt him, just so that he notices. It’s astounding. How easily Jon knows when he’s not really there anymore. Martin desperately wants to stay here. It’s safe here. He’s safe here.

“I’m sorry”, he says when he can speak again. His voice still as tearstained as his cheeks.

“What for? It’s all well, Martin. Just take your time.”

“No, I…” Martin extracts himself from Jon’s arm, taking in shuddering breaths. “It’s okay, I mean… it’s not, but… thank you.”

Jon doesn’t smile, but his lips loop into a soft almost-smile that has Martin relax his shoulders. It hurts. He lay hunched over, clutching his own and Jon’s jumper for who knows how long. And Jon is a good few centimetres smaller than him, so Martin has to lean down to reach him. Sitting back up has his back complain, but he doesn’t make a face.

“I… I don’t know what came over me, there.” Martin shrugs himself smaller, falls into himself. “I didn’t mean to… y’know… bore you with my life.”

“I assure you, Martin, I won’t hold it against you.”

Martin smiles. It’s insecure and wobbly and barely visible. The way Jon says his name has him think that maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not as bad as he thought it was. He deserved better than whatever his father gave him – or what he has to give in the future.

“Besides”, Jon picks Martin’s cup up and sets it down on the table, “it wasn’t your fault. The fog makes people… vulnerable. It traps them.”

“The…” Martin blinks. “The fog?” And then several links click in his brain. “Oh god! The capital F Fog Finley talked about!”

Martin grabs his hair with both hands. “I was… was the… was the village really empty? I thought there, for a second, I should just… just not bother anymore. And the… the pain? The goddamn loneliness? The _fog_ brought them?”

In Martin’s ideal world Jon shakes his head, laughs and tells him that _No, Martin, absolutely not. It’s just fog, it’s not dangerous. Don’t worry!_

But Jon sighs deeply before adjusting his glasses with two fingers. “Yes, Martin. It’s not just fog, it’s more, it’s dangerous.”

“It’s…” Martin closes his mouth without finishing his sentence. He doesn’t know what he was about to say, anyway. Probably nothing. Just empty words that can’t convey the feeling of absolute _Wrongness_ that has taken hold of him.

“You don’t have to worry”, Jon says. He sits up straighter, but doesn’t quite look at Martin, his eyes are glued to the table in front of them.

“The fog, it’s… it’s the Lonely. It can only get to you if you’re, well, lonely. If its hold on you gets any stronger it might call to you even if you’re in company, but don’t worry about it. It… well, I guess you were more a quick snack than a serious meal.”

“A _snack_?!” Martin stands up too quickly and falls back down onto the soft couch next to Jon. His hands fumble for something to hold himself up with.

“Are you telling me, that- that Fog! It wanted to _eat_ me?”

Jon scowls. “I- no.”

His face is scrunched up again, his frown comes back in full force, and Martin finds he manages to breathe a little easier with Jon looking at him the same way he did just this Wednesday over reheated lunch. It… Maybe it’s okay? Maybe there’s an explanation behind this.

“Listen, Martin…” Jon sighs. “The Lonely is… it’s a force. It’s part of something bigger, something beyond human understanding.”

“Like… uhm like a… god?”

“No.” Jon’s immediate dismissal carries the aftertaste of barely hidden disgust. “Definitely not a god, far from it. It’s… it’s fear. There’s so much fear in this world that it can… it can come together and build… it becomes something like an intangible force with limited access to our reality. It feeds on fear. And there are… there are people, special people, who… feed them.”

“I…” Martin stares at Jon for a solid ten seconds. “What?”

Jon drags his unscarred hand through his face. “Remember Mary Willison? And her talking about witches? And forces that give them power?”

“Uhm…” Martin’s brows knit together, while he digs through his brain back to Mary’s explanations. “Yes?”

“She’s right.” Jon shrugs. “She’s also wrong. Very wrong about a lot, but it’s as good as anything. For a start at least.”

“What?” Martin is wrung out. The day was long and hard and exhausting. He can feel every single bone in his body scream for rest, but his mind is going around in circles. _The Fog was actually there, actually evil and tried to eat me. What?_

“Wait, does that mean I’ll have nightmares just as Finley did? And all the other statement givers?”

All of a sudden, Jon seems surprised. “No, it’s rather unlikely. You talked about it or talked about what it was that bothered you and nurtured your loneliness. This should suffice, especially if you take another cup of warm tea and…” He throws a glance over his shoulder, but quickly turns back to Martin again. In a swift movement, Jon grabs his hand, holds it between his two. The scar tissue on his right hand is smooth in some places and rough in others, the touch leaves Martin’s skin tingling like his words did before.

“Stay. Just for tonight. The Lonely doesn’t dare trespassing here, you will be safe.”

Martin wants to say something. Anything, really. His mouth stands open, but no words come out. He’s not even sure he’s breathing anymore. Jon’s eyes gleam. Not supernaturally so, there’s no unnatural glow to them, no light shining from them. He just looks up at him, not bothering to keep the pleading from his eyes, displaying his hope openly for him to see.

“Yes”, Martin hears himself say. It’s the right answer. All worry, all the painful tension drains from Jon’s body. He breathes out.

“I’ll bring you some more tea, and then I can show you the guest room.”

When Jon leaves him on the couch and goes to fill his cup again, Martin is glad for the openness of the cottage. There is, he knows, the slightest blush on his face. It’s far lighter, far colder than his usual blushes are. It’s disturbing to _feel_ the effects this Lonely-thing has on his body. But Jon is right there. Right in the kitchen. He looks back to him from time to time, checking if he’s still there, just making sure he didn’t dissolve into fog.

 _This,_ Martin thinks, _is wrong._ Evil fog makes zero sense. Fear so great it has a shape and what? A mind? This. Is. Wrong.

“Here you go.” Jon hands him his cup. The tea is not steaming hot, just warm enough to drink it without burning his throat and ignite a cosy warmth in his stomach. It’s fruity, with a touch of honey. Martin breathes it in, smiles around another sip.

Jon settles back into his armchair, his own cup still full in front of him on the table. He looks, Martin’s brain supplies ever helpful, like a teacher waiting for Martin’s parents to show up to tell them everything he did wrong. It doesn’t feel like it. Of course. Martin’s not examined here. Just kept safe, like a rare porcelain cup, the last one of a set that vanished. Lost to the world irreversibly. But he’s not. He has his set, his family is still alive, besides, his stretch marks and freckles hardly translate to filigree patters painted with the finest of brushes. He’s also not as delicate as porcelain cups are.

 _It’s hard to break me,_ he thinks as he sits there, broken apart from a life that played too rough with him and tore open every seam that once held him together, and pulled at every part he glued back on.

“Jon, I just… thank you.” Martin drinks from his tea, shutting himself up.

“It’s quite alright, Martin.” He smiles then. Seeing Jon smile has Martin’s insides do summersaults. Probably because he rarely sees it. And it’s an accomplishment, isn’t it? To make someone smile, who seems to have two facial expressions: annoyed frowny face and thinking frowny face.

He nods into his tea before emptying the cup. He’s glad he found a friend in Jon. He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened without him.

“Come on”, Jon says, “I’ll show you the guest room. I… uhm… I’m not sure I have clothes that fit you, but maybe Daisy left some trousers and shirts here, some of the tracksuit bottoms should fit you. I…” He frowns for a moment, leading Martin towards a door on the left wall between living room and kitchen. “I never thought about it, but it seems most of my house guests here are women. And I doubt my trousers fit you.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jon. Anything is fine.” Martin smiles.

Jon hums in discontent as he opens the door. His guest room is small, with just a bed, a small bedside table with a lamp, a rather robust looking closet on one wall, and a small desk with chair in a corner. It’s clean, but the room has the atmosphere of frequent use. Martin smells a deodorant in it that’s clearly not Jon’s. Jon smells like wet soil after a short spring rain.

Before he can protest, Jon opens the closet and pulls out multiple tracksuit bottoms, a couple of which are definitely his and far too small.

“There should be something in there for you”, Jon says his hands on his hips. “Pick one, you can just leave the rest out, I’ll clean up in the morning.” He kicks the hem of his skirt. “You remember where the bathroom is?”

Martin nods. It’s hard not to let himself fall right into the bed. It’s big enough for two people and looks so very inviting – and just as soft as the couch was.

“Martin”, Jon stops at the doorstep again, “If there’s anything wrong tonight, anything, if you feel lonely, even if you just want company, you can wake me up. I… I doubt the Lonely will come after you again, but if anything happens… yes, come to me.” He nods once, brusquely, his typical Jon nod.

Martin nods, too. Softer. “I will. I… thank you. This is… thank you.”

“You are welcome. And Martin?”

“Yes?” He looks back up from the clothes spread out on the bed.

“Don’t worry so much. Not now.” With this, he’s gone, and the door closes softly. His steps leave the door and Martin behind. He’s still out there, still in the living room, tidying up, cleaning the mess Martin made of his carpet.

It occurs to Martin, just as he pulls on a pair of tracksuit bottoms that actually fit, he should have helped him clean up. It was his fault, after all. But he’s pretty sure Jon wouldn’t have wanted his help, he would have sent him right back to his guest room, maybe get him a second (third, really) cup of tea to make sure he wouldn’t get back up. With the resolution not to worry Jon too much (and because he is rather exhausted), he climbs into the bed, adjusting the pillows and blankets that are ridiculously soft. He’s more used to a harder mattress, but this’ll do for one night. His back won’t complain tomorrow, he slept on worse.

Martin, while he’s sure he’s going to have trouble sleeping, falls asleep quickly. The exhaustion and the cold of the day catching up to his tired body. His eyes droop, his limbs hug the extra pillow underneath the blanket, and before he can think of anything else, he falls asleep. Content for the moment, safe for the first time since he was a child.

Lying in a nest of warmth and comfort, he dreams of flowers, blooming under rain, dripping tears of perfume and honey.

♣

The tea Martin spilled will not stain. The spot is already dry, but with a little effort, Jon manages to clean it nicely. Seeing the stains would just throw Martin off again, and Jon wants to keep him out of the Lonely, not push him right back into it.

“Is he gone?”

Jon doesn’t look up from his carpet. “Of course not, he’s sleeping in the guest room, I’m not sending him home after tonight.”

“I didn’t know Peter was back.”

“Should have expected it, really, after Elias.” Jon shrugs. He stretches and falls back onto the couch in his back.

“Better to run into Peter than Jane, I guess.” Behind him, Oliver takes a sip from his mug. It’s the green one with red toadstools.

“Not sure about it. After everything, the Corruption is, deep down, born from the feeling of being one with what you love, it does spread love. That’s something he longs for. The Lonely however, well, is lonely. I don’t want that for him.” Jon’s eyes find the door behind which Martin snores softly. _I really don’t want that for him._

“And the Corruption kills faster than the Lonely does”, Oliver says, interrupting Jon’s staring.

“That, too.”

“Still, it was very nice of you to let him stay here. Is there something special about this one?”

Jon snorts. “What? Isn’t it enough to steal the Lonely’s prey for the simple pleasure of annoying Peter Lukas?”

“You sound like Simon.”

Jon looks up now and sees Oliver smirking down at him, his mug dangling at a dangerous angle. He rolls his eyes.

“Maybe Simon has a point. Besides, I actually… I like Martin. He’s part of the village and I, you know I protect them.”

Oliver clears his throat and flicks one of his dreads with a finger. “Sure, yes, I recall. I guess, I just didn’t expect you to run out in the middle of my presentation.”

“Oh? There’s something Death’s Secretary didn’t think to plan for?”

Oliver rolls his eyes, then moves to the kitchen with his mug. To refill it, Jon knows. He’ll be back, but Jon doesn’t wait for him and follows to his kitchen.

“So”, Oliver says, pouring cold milk into his cup, “do you want to resume or rather start over tomorrow?”

Jon heaves himself onto his counter and crosses his legs. “I remember where we stopped. Do carry on, I’m all eyes.”

Oliver dumps cocoa powder into his mug. “Yes, very funny. As I was saying, Annabelle informed us that Elias seems to be recruiting. Not new humans, but fully fleshed out avatars. Peter is calling in all the favours the Fairchild’s still owe him.”

Jon quirks one eyebrow. “I always suspected it was the other way around.”

“Yes, nobody really understands that friendship. I talked to Mike, but he just shrugged.” Oliver shrugs himself then and takes a sip if his cold cocoa.

“I have a diagram with the favours either has called in so far, if you want to see it? Though I’m working on a new one that factors in the possibility they just… make the favours up because they both forgot who owes whom how much.”

“No thanks?”

“It’s not finished anyway.” Oliver clears his throat. “If you would direct your attention to slide twenty-seven, that’d be great. We were nearly done with twenty-six anyway, so let’s just move on.”

Jon opens a couple of eyes on his arms, underneath his sleeves, to reach out to Oliver’s presentation. It’s on his computer somewhere, earlier this evening he already… ah! There! He finds it under the appropriate name and flicks through the slides until he reaches twenty-seven. It’s titled “Precautions”.

“Okay, please turn your attention to the first point.”

Jon does so. “One: Keep in contact.”

“Yes. To ensure that Elias or any Lukas has no leverage on any of us, we should all keep in contact with our fellow avatars. It doesn’t include avatars of other patrons, though it is encouraged. It mainly refers to your kind. I keep an eye out for any avatars of the End, you stop the eye jokes, Jon.”

Jon closes his mouth again before he can say anything else.

“It means for you to take an interest in what the other Watchers do. It should be easier for you since you are… an actual authority chosen by the Eye. Barely any of the Reapers listen to me.”

“Are there any other Coroners besides you?”, Jon asks.

“I gave myself that title.” Oliver takes a quick swig of his cocoa before continuing: “Anyway, keep in contact. Moving on to the second point.”

Jon nods. “Two: Track suspicious movement.”

“If anyone finds someone in their ranks moving suspiciously, especially someone touched by the Eye – this one doesn’t apply for you – then find out if their interest stems from their mark or their personal interest instead of any manipulations Elias has on hand. If necessary, check in with Annabelle and ask if any Web agent has anything to do with it. Third point?”

“Uhm…” Jon concentrates on it. “Choose further steps. One point one exploit.”

“Right. If, under any circumstances, someone is found working with Elias or the Lukas family, you have two options. Option one: Exploitation. Use the traitor as a spy or send someone trustworthy with them under the disguise of a second traitor.”

Jon frowns. “There’s an asterisk behind one point one.”

“Yes”, Oliver nods and takes another sip, “If this case arises, those responsible report back to either the Coroner, the Weaver, or the Archivist. If neither of those are in reach, report back to the Ringmaster.” He rolls his eyes. “Nikola terrorised me until I added her.”

“Sounds like Nikola.” Jon toasts to Oliver with his own tea. Their cups clink and they both take a deep gulp of tea and cocoa respectively.

“Next up?”

Jon turns back to the slides. “One point two death.” He frowns. “Is that death as in End or actual death?”

“Actual death. If an avatar is found a traitor and the situation cannot be exploited, there is nothing left but to kill them. Their death is left to the respective leaders or other avatars on the same level as them. Nobody expects anyone to share knowledge about how to sever the connection to specific Fears or how to kill fully formed avatars. These are just precautions.”

“I see.”

Oliver’s face speaks of deep pain. “Was that another pun?”

Jon blinks. “No, but now it is. Georgie will be so proud.”

“I’m afraid you’re right. Still, let’s move on to slide twenty-nine, I don’t want to be here all night.” He throws a side glance to Jon’s guest room door. “Since I don’t have a place to stay.”

“You can take the couch. Tim slept on there a couple of times and never complained.”

“No thanks, I never intended to stay the night. You are pleasant company, but I don’t sleep well and I doubt the presence of a servant of the Eye will help my case.”

Jon nods. He has a point.

“Now? Slide twenty-nine.”

His cup at his lips, Jon moves on to the next slide on Oliver’s detailed presentation. It should be the last one before the results follow. This is not the first one of his presentations he sat through. But when the slide comes into view, he nearly spits out his tea.

Slide twenty-nine is titled “Annabelle was here! ::::P” and filled with rather detailed pictures of different kinds of spiders and their webs.

“Now, we have- what’s wrong?”

“ _Spiders have blue blood_ ”, Jon reads from the slide, “ _so every spider is by definition a royal. And at any given moment there’s a spider in the palace and therefore deserve the crown. Don’t you think spiders are fascinating, Jon? They are! I’m glad we agree. As a reward I complied thirty more slides of the cutest spider pictures I could find._ ” He closes his eyes, even his human once for a second, letting go of the presentation. “I am not going through thirty pages of spider pictures, Oliver.”

Oliver pulls a disappointed face. “How? Why? I mean, how did she… oh never mind.”

“Do you want to hold your presentation without slides?”

“No, it’s okay. I’ll just send it to you once I manage to undo whatever Annabelle did there. It’s still the same e-mail address, right?”

Jon nods.

“Great. Even without the rest of the slides, will you join us?” Oliver sets his mug down, it’s empty by now, and holds out his hand towards Jon.

The air dries out, leaves the distinct smell of death, a cemetery overflowing with dead bodies, the earth just as dead, used, barren, the meagre flowers growing there, forced to drain already dead ground of the little nutrition it doesn’t want to give.

Jon shakes his hand. “The Watchers stand with you. We don’t accept Elias’ antics.”

“Bold to speak for all of them.” Oliver turns back to his fridge and pours himself more milk.

“There are about ten other avatars, fully formed not just touched. Ten in the entire world. It’s not hard to keep track of what they think of me and what they want.”

“See, that’s part of why I like the Watchers.” Oliver adds more cocoa powder than before.

“Nobody likes us. We’re nosy.”

“Not a problem for a guy who has nothing to hide. Cheers.” He tastes his cocoa, shakes his head and adds more milk. “Now, tell me more about your lonely friend.”

“Martin?” Jon glances back to the door. “Why do you want to know?”

“I decided that convincing Georgie to trust me can be easily accomplished by showing her I take an interest in your life as well. Besides, I like you. There are far worse avatars out there.”

“Thanks? I guess.” Jon holds out his cup for Oliver to fill it with the rest of the lukewarm water. “Just out of curiosity, but why do you want Georgie to become an avatar of the End?”

“Because”, Oliver says, handing him back his cup, “maybe if there are two Coroners there’s a chance the End will split the visions between us and I can take a nap from time to time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, but there's more to come. And there's more and more plot to discover...
> 
> Next up: The smell of freshly baked bread, Elias’ supernatural mood ring, and Martin’s neglected poetry


	12. How to bake a cake … without baking mix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin’s neglected poetry, Elias’ supernatural mood ring, and the smell of freshly baked bread (it's not bread, it's cake, but I forgot to change it -- whoopsie)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to everyone, who thought Elias’ ring was suspicious, you were Right. Not that important for the plot, but I do enjoy making his life harder than necessary.

Fog coils between the trees, twists and turns, dancing to the rhythm of panicked heartbeats when lost souls realise for the first time how lost they really are. In clouds of grey and white waits layer upon layer of used breath, lacking oxygen and warmth. The trees are barely more than grey shadows between the fog, shivering silhouettes ready to disappear any second, simply swallowed by another wave of thick, white fog.

The only solid thing here, the only thing the fog reaches out to cautiously, is the figure on the high balcony. They sit on a chaise longue unfit for outdoor use, smoking a pipe and reading the newspapers. Multiple newspapers from all around. A small stack waits for them on the table on their side.

Peter looks up to the mansion, lets the coat of the Lonely slip just enough to be noticeable, and waves the figure over. Elias sees him, his eyes are on him immediately, but he pretends he’s too engrossed in his newspapers, puffing out smoke like an especially stubborn ship.

A second figure steps up next to Peter. They, too, slip out of the Lonely like it’s an old, well-worn coat.

“I will never understand what you see in him”, Evan says.

Peter hums. He wishes for a moment that Evan’s wife, Naomi, was less introverted, less aligned with the Lonely to give the sentiment right back to Evan, but he says nothing. Silent, barely visible even to themselves, they make their way over the wide, open field towards the mansion. It’s positively drowning in fog, shielded from any too curious souls seeking adventures out here.

Inside, the staff stays in the shadows, moving with barely any sound. Still, at the entrance they are always the closest, with hands reaching out readily to take coats and shoes away as Evan and Peter change into their lighter house shoes and Peter throws his heavy sailors coat over. It’s not the only coat he has, it’s simply too worn to use it on the Tundra anymore, so he rather wears it at home. It brings him some peace of mind.

“I’ll see you for dinner?”, Evan asks.

Peter makes a noise that’s not quite a grunt. How can any avatar of the Lonely be this sociable? Of course, there are… many ways to feed the Fears. Many non-violent ways. Many non-fatal. Not so much Peter’s style, but Evan insists on it. It’s his own Loneliness, his own decision. As long as he can live with it, Peter won’t object. He has his fair share of strangeness to him his family… doesn’t condemn but doesn’t understand either.

“Uncle…?”

“Yes”, Peter grunts, “Sure, at dinner. We’ll join you.”

It’s enough for Evan and he vanishes. Not into the Lonely, just up the stairs to his respective rooms. As much as the boy enjoys company, he doesn’t really want to meet with Elias unless absolutely necessary. Peter is very much aware of what his family thinks of his husband. But the Eye and the Lonely are not antithetic, so there’s no real concern they could bring up.

Peter moves through the mansion like waves carrying ships into their ports with no engine strength whatsoever. Determined, but somewhat reluctant at the same time. He doesn’t pull back, would never, but he walks slow enough to feel the annoyance seep through the Eyes Elias still has on him. He’s watching, waiting for him to return on his own. The fog doesn’t follow. It coils and curls outside the doors, but the inside is free of white, except for the occasional wisp clinging to Peter himself, or reaching up from his footsteps.

The wide balcony Elias conquered for himself is the one adjunct to their bedroom, whereas the chaise longue he stole belongs to the reading room downstairs. It’s not a library, especially not in the way Elias would like it, but it’s home to some entertaining books on sailing and shipbuilding Peter enjoyed. It’s not supposed to be a feeding site to the Eye, just a reading room. Soundproof, hidden, tucked away in the furthest corner.

Peter considered killing Elias in there and hiding his body under the floorboards often enough.

“You’re back early”, Elias says as Peter joins him on the balcony. The cool air tastes like rain and sea salt.

Peter leans down and presses a scratchy kiss to Elias’ lips. It has been a while since he last shaved. Elias makes a noise of discontent but doesn’t draw back. His hands come up to cup Peter’s chin, his fingers carding through the stubble clinging to him. As Peter leans back up, Elias follows him for the shortest of moments before he, too, leans back into his seat.

He sat his pipe and newspapers aside before Peter stepped out. In his dress shirt and suit trousers he looks somehow more relaxed than when he’s in his pyjamas. It’s an enigma to Peter who has seen him in both. He likes to see it as a reward of persistence. A sight he shared with few others he doesn’t like to think about. Elias doesn’t know – Peter is sure he doesn’t, absolutely certain because if he did he’d abuse his knowledge to no end – but the one thing Peter is prone to is a nearly choking jealousy. It’s a… sickness many Lonely avatars are coursed with. Jealousy holds its own kind of loneliness, its own kind of hurt and betrayal, and the absolute need to isolate the object of this jealousy until there’s nobody else around. Elias is a lot, but he wouldn’t cheat on him. Still, he keeps his secret hid safely. Even the thought of Elias finding out, of him using some other pawn, letting someone else close, it… no. Unacceptable.

For a long moment, Peter just looks at him. He commits everything about him to memory, then lets the fog wash it away again. Not forgetting, just numbing, just overshadowing the deep feeling of belonging.

“Your Archivist cost me a victim”, Peter says after a long silence Elias doesn’t interrupt.

“He’s no longer _mine._ ” Elias puffs his pipe. “I have no power over him.”

His other hand finds the big ring on his finger he uses as their engagement ring every time. He keeps it close even outside their marriages. The part of Peter that’s still stubbornly human wants to see it as sentimental, as Elias’ desperate clinging to something that connects them even when they’re apart – in distance and by law. He shoves it down, drowns it in fog and coldness and the sound of waves crashing on a shore where nobody can hear them. The ring is less a connection to him than it is to the Library and its Archives. There is a part of the library – of its original wood, a page of Smirke’s book maybe, Elias never told him – there’s something hidden in it. It amplifies his powers, connects him to the library and lets him _see_ even when he’s away.

Peter says yes every time Elias asks him to use this very ring for their engagement. And then their marriage. And he knows he’ll keep agreeing over and over again. How lonely.

“I don’t like this.”

Peter takes a seat next to Elias, effectively forcing him to sit instead of leisurely sprawl all over the chaise longue. He does, sits up and makes space for Peter. He even stops fiddling his ring.

“You should plan your ritual without him.”

“I don’t really have a choice, Peter. If I want to do it right, I need… an Archivist.”

Peter’s hands twitch with the suppressed need to take Elias’ hand in his. “So? Just make a new one.”

Elias raises both brows. “There can only be one Archivist. And the other few avatars of the Eye, they… well, they like Jon. I can’t overpower him alone.”

Peter almost says something. Says _You have me, I will help you, I will always be at your side._ Almost promises _I will catch you if you fall and… and I will do anything._ But in the end, he holds his tongue, holds his words right behind his teeth, not slipping, not falling any further.

_Anything, Elias. Would you sacrifice me? I think you would. I really do. And I think I would, too. If given the chance to bring my God into this world, if I had to kill you for the Lonely, I would. But, Elias, I would cry, I would hold you, I would keep your memories as a last human rebellion against the Fears._

He doesn’t say it. Says nothing, just lets his hand stray to Elias’ and waits for him to take it. It takes a moment before he really does.

His hands are cool from sitting outside this early in the morning, but the remaining warmth cuts through Peter’s ice cold skin like a flash of lightning. The touch burns him, and it hurts. It hurts him to sit here, hold his hand, to know he can lean down and kiss him, and take dinner with him tonight, and that one day – somewhen in the future – Elias’ will break it all off again. Or he will do it himself. End another marriage, just to start up the same old dance again. But he will do it. More even, he will enjoy it like all the times before.

_I really love him. I love us together._

And isn’t that the loneliest of all thoughts? The word “us” is the loneliest word to him. Simply because their “us” is barely more than “me and you”, but never anything more. There’s no “forever” following any declaration of love. There are times – there always are – when Elias turns to him, holds him close, when the world turns but they both don’t know how much time has passed, times when Peter wants to believe that he’s the special one, the one Elias will remember fondly even when he’s not Elias anymore.

What a beautiful thought, what a beautiful lie.

“I don’t have to like all your plans”, he mumbles.

Elias leans in for Peter to loop his arm around his shoulder and pull him even closer. “I know, my dear, I know.”

“What if the Archivist decides he’s got enough of you?”

“Then, my dear Peter, I will die.” Elias says it with a finality that hurts. He turns and turns and turns his ring, clinging to it like it does more than simply amplify his powers, like it holds his life right between the stone and the setting. Such a long life squeezed into such a narrow space.

The Archivist poses a threat to his life. In his trying and searching and experimenting, he created something more. Something he never dared to dream of, rich with power, but unwilling to listen to his words. Even though they share a patron, Jon has the power necessary to kill Elias. They both know it.

_I won’t let him._

“It doesn’t matter anyway”, he says instead. “Simon gave his okay to play messenger for a while. You can send your invitations as soon as next weekend.”

Elias tips his head up, catching Peter’s face in both his hands again. “What would I do without you?”

_I love you. You know I love you and it hurts to hear you talk like that. To know we’re both disposable necessities to each other, tools too sharp to throw away just yet. Or maybe that’s just me._

“Fail your ritual. Again.”

Elias pulls a face, his thumbs caress Peter’s cheeks (it’s a strong word for the hardly loving pressure he puts on him). “You need to shave.”

His hands leave his face, and there’s only the far off feeling of former warmth that burrowed under the scratchy stubble, barely more than the echo of waves calling him back on board and out, far out into the lonely sea.

♣

Martin wakes up too slowly to remember when he stopped dreaming and started remembering. The air smells of flowers and herbs and old paper soaking up already dried up ink, crumbling leather backs of books older than he is, the sunlight that shines through the window is weak, but alive. It stops just shy of the tip of his nose, lying in bed next to him, filling the empty space there with a natural warmth without the need of a body warming it.

 _This is,_ he thinks, cuddling the blankets closer, _rather nice, actually._ Yes, he likes it here. It’s warm, smells wonderfully fresh, and safe. He’s safe here. It’s so, so nice to fall back into his head without being afraid of cutting himself on thoughts too sharp to think them without ready band-aids. He can just… fall back… asleep…

Later, he can write some poetry. Oh, he has so many nice ideas. Most of them feature fog for some reason, but that’s okay. He used fog in so many poems by now it could easily become a signature. And maybe he can incorporate some more elements. A voice, calling through the thick fog, a warm hand reaching out to him, eyes that find his and watch him – not to threaten but to protect.

Martin blinks his eyes open, breathing in the warm sunlight. Yes, his poems need some more light, too. Maybe a lantern to mark the house he travels towards, a lighthouse guiding ships home safely, a raindrop reflecting long forgotten light. What a hopeful picture, what a nice, warm morning that lies ahead. His poetry is short of light and hope and warmth. He needs to change that. Needs to get up and write about blankets and pillows and warm tea.

When Martin blinks his eyes free of any lingering sleep, he finds himself in a room he doesn’t recognise. This… is not his bedroom? And not his bed? Outside he can hear someone walk, quick steps as thick socks shuffle over carpet and the wooden floor.

“Oh right”, he mumbles into the pillow and the blankets around him. He’s still at Jon’s. He decided to stay over, decided to be even more of a bother he – no. No, he’s… Jon _asked_ him to stay. Jon wants him here. And he can prove that to his consciousness very easily.

…if he gets out of bed.

It’s torture to extract himself from the cosy nest he slept in, but he manages. The morning is warm, bright and holds him accountable for drinking tea before going to bed. Martin moves with one hand in his hair over to the door, determined to find the bathroom quietly in case Jon isn’t up for a chat this early in the morning.

When he leaves the room – still in his crumbled shirt and track suit bottoms that are not his – he figures he doesn’t have to keep quiet. Jon is neither in the kitchen, nor the living room, but the front door stands open and on the kitchen isle wait a couple of ingrediencies Martin can’t imagine make something edible if mixed together. He remembers Jon’s bathroom from last Wednesday.

Their lunch was only three days ago, but it feels like a lifetime. The edges of something sharper, something more demanding dig into him from afar. The same sharp pain he was left with on his drive back, until the fog replaced it with numbness. The fog. What did Jon say it was? Loneliness?

“Am I lonely?”, he asks his reflection in the mirror as he washes his hands. His reflection looks back at him but offers no answer.

Instead, Martin inspects his cheeks with his fingertips. His tears dried over night, but his skin is still raw from rubbing over the wetness over and over again, not to mention the lingering feeling of burning under his eyes. The feeling presses in even though he’s not about to cry again. It’s like he’s back in school, staring into his own face, trying different ways to look at himself, some way to make his smile shine and not fall flat on reddened cheeks and burning eyes.

Martin dries his hands and face, spares one last glance at himself, then leaves the bathroom. He should leave as soon as possible. Jon has his own life to organise, he doesn’t need Martin overstaying his welcome until god knows when. On his way back to the kitchen he debates on how to thank Jon properly for his time and all the troubles he had to go through for him.

“Thank you”, he mumbles under his breath, “It wasn’t necessary, no that sounds ungrateful. Thank you, really, it was nice and all, I just – no. No that sound like I didn’t like it. I liked it, it was… nice… it’s just…”

He doesn’t come to a conclusion before he reaches the open kitchen/living room. And it takes Jon only a second to notice him.

“Oh, Martin, you’re up!”

Jon kneels in front of the open door with a potted plant in front of him and a little spray can in his hand. He’s wearing the same skirt as yesterday but changed his jumper for a short-sleeved shirt. There are dark and green stains on it that look like he tried to wash them out before and gave up after their stubbornness trumped his own. He sprays his can, then wipes his hands clean on his shirt’s hem.

“I wasn’t sure what you wanted to have for breakfast”, he says, waving to the different things waiting readily in his kitchen. “Or when you wanted to have breakfast.”

“I… uhm…” Martin clears his throat. This is it, the perfect moment to tell him that _No, really, it’s nice of you, but I should get home, I have enough at home, I can eat there, don’t worry about it._

“So I just made pancakes”, Jon continues, finally getting up from the floor and trotting over. “I had some last week, though I personally don’t like the ready-made dough you just pour into a pan. I tried it, but I made these myself.”

“No, really it’s… you… you already made breakfast?” Martin stares at the ingrediencies on the counter. Cracked eggshells and used spoons wait for a hand to clean them.

“I prepared the batter at least.” Jon is surprisingly quick. He makes his way into the kitchen, around Martin and to his fridge before Martin realises he lost his opportunity to make his excuses.

“It’s enough for the both of us.” Jon pulls a bowl out of his fridge and shows Martin the pancake batter he made. “Actually I think it’s too much for us, but I guess it’s better to have a little more than not enough. Ah, but don’t worry”, he waves his hand when he sees Martin’s face, “I just now finished it. Stood in the fridge for… what? Barely five minutes.”

“I… uhm… thanks?”

Jon moves to a pan that already waits on the stove. “Don’t mention it. You can take a seat, I’m making you tea.”

“I…” _Oh really, Jon, I can do it myself, don’t worry about it, I don’t want to be a bother._ “Thanks.”

Martin sits behind the kitchen island where two chairs wait for guests to use them. It takes only moments before a cup with steaming tea is placed in front of him. It’s a different cup from the one he used yesterday evening and Martin wonders for a second if the cup he dropped shattered. It’s unlikely, he dropped it onto carpet and he saw the cup afterwards, he even used it again. At least he thinks he did. Everything from yesterday evening is blurry. 

“I have syrup here if you want some”, Jon says while he fries pancakes in his pan. “And some berries, but it’s not quite the season yet, so they can be a little sour.”

“Oh, no, I… uhm thanks, that’s okay.” Martin wants to drown his words in tea, but it’s too hot to drink just yet.

Jon moves with concentrated precision through his kitchen, pours batter, moves the pan and handles a spatula like it’s a knife and he just found the right moment to strike. Between pouring and striking, he cleans his utensils away. Martin follows him with his eyes. There lies an apron over the chair next to Martin, but if some of the batter finds its way onto Jon’s shirt, he doesn’t notice it. The entire scene has something domestic about it that Martin has never experienced. He’s supposed to be the one, who cooks and fusses and makes tea. He’s supposed to be the one, who fills the silence with idle chatter. Not the other part, he never sat on the other side, he doesn’t know what to say.

Jon doesn’t stop talking. Martin has a feeling that Jon isn’t used to having to do the talking part, too. He’s jumping from one to another topic.

“At least that’s what Jordan said. And I know he works as an exterminator these days, but spiders really are something else.”

“I like spiders”, Martin mumbles into his tea.

Jon chuckles. “Of course you do. I fear spiders could take a liking to you as well. But yes, as I was saying”, he plates three pancakes for Martin before turning to him, “most of my friends like a warm breakfast with eggs and toast, but I like sweet things more.”

He was not saying this before, but Martin takes his plate anyway. “You look the part.”

The moment he says it, he regrets the words. Maybe the fog had been a blessing from his future to keep him from embarrassing himself any further. Martin drops the fork he just picked up. It hits the plate’s edge with a clink. You cannot walk around and call people “sweet” to their face without any consequences. Especially not if your name is Martin Blackwood and you are prone to blushing furiously. It takes all of Martin’s strength not to bury his face in his hands, but his blush is high on his cheeks, creeping over his entire face.

“I do?” Jon slides over the mentioned syrup and a bowl of wild strawberries, seemingly unaware of Martin’s embarrassment. “People usually say I look like someone who drinks coffee black.”

“I uhm, I guess people saying that uhm” – don’t have eyes in their heads – “have never seen you order coffee?”

“Maybe. Here, if you want cream, I have”

“No! No, thank you!” With his knife in one and his fork in the other hand, Martin hurries to cut into his pancakes and shoves a piece into his mouth. “They’re good!”

He’s not about to make Jon do even more for him. This is already too much. Though he has to say, Jon seems a decent cook. These pancakes taste really good, they are fluffy and on the right side of sweet to eat them without anything else. True to his words, Jon dumps syrup onto his own plate before he takes a seat himself. Martin scoots a little farther from the other chair to give him his space, but Jon doesn’t round the island, instead he sets his plate down, turns around and pushes himself up until he sits cross legged in front of Martin, his plate in his lap.

“Uhm…”

Jon hesitates. “I… I’m sorry. Old habit.”

“Oh! No, Jon, don’t worry, it’s okay, it’s _your_ kitchen!”

But Jon is already back on his feet before Martin can finish his quick reassurance. As Martin expected before, he takes the seat next to him, his pancakes soaking up syrup.

“So?”, Jon starts the conversation up again. “Did you sleep well?”

“I… yes, surprisingly so.”

Jon nods. “No nightmares then. That’s good. That’s good.”

Martin doesn’t know what else to say, so he stuffs his mouth with more pancakes. The silence stretches, engulfs them for a long moment. It’s not an awkward silence, rather the inevitable silence you have while eating, it’s easy to break, waits even to hide away. Far lighter than the heavy silence Martin had to carry yesterday night.

That reminds him.

“Yesterday”, Martin says after a while, “you said something about the fog being… evil?”

“Ah.” Jon lays his cutlery back onto his plate. “Yes, well, I guess I did.”

“So?” He is so not ready to let this go.

“Well. This isn’t easy to explain, Martin.”

 _Martin._ There’s… something to his name when Jon says it like this. All soft and gentle, like it means something more than just his name. Not quite like an incantation, rather like a promise, the last line of a story Martin has yet to read through, nonetheless it ignites something deep within his chest. Somewhere, pushed back, forgotten and trampled down, he hides a heart that’s beaten up and cut open by hungry blades.

“Well”, he says, his mouth dry, his eyes burning again (and he thought he had long since used up all tears his body had to offer), “try it.”

Jon clears his throat. “You asked if this thing, the Fog, if it’s evil.”

Martin nods.

“Not conventionally so, no. The fog”, he turns his fork between his fingers, “it’s a manifestation of the Lonely.”

“And this Lonely is evil?”

Jon sighs. “Not conventionally so. It doesn’t… think what it does is evil. And it doesn’t really… chose to be evil. The Lonely is more a… Well the nature of the Lonely stands against the nature of humans. Humans, even though they sometimes want time to themselves, cannot survive all alone on their own. The least that happens is, they go crazy. That’s… I mean, who wouldn’t? But when people are left to their own devices for too long, when they’re neglected by society, by other people, they might end up alone for an indefinite time. Martin.” Jon turns to face him, his pancakes and tea forgotten. “If you woke up tomorrow and found out you were the only person left in this village, the only person in the whole world, would you be afraid?”

Martin opens his mouth, then closes it again without saying anything. The question feels heavy. Not in the way Jon’s question felt yesterday, not at all. Those questions reached inside him, tugged and tugged at his brain until he spilled all the truths he didn’t know he had. This, right now? It’s heavy simply because it won’t force Martin’s answer out of him. And he doesn’t understand how there can be any difference or how any question could be described as forceful when Jon’s voice sounds weak and frayed at the edges.

So? Would he be afraid? To wake up to an empty world, like he wakes up to an empty flat day after day after day? Is it the same? Loneliness and being alone?

“Yes”, he says. “I guess, I would be afraid.”

Jon nods again. “That’s the Lonely. This specific piece of fear, that’s the Lonely.”

“Oh.” Martin stares at his half-eaten breakfast. “And that’s what… what tried to eat me yesterday.”

It’s not a question. He knows the answer already.

“Yes. But it won’t try it again. Don’t worry. Now”, Jon holds up his plate, “are you _sure_ you don’t want syrup? It’s really good.”

“Wait, what?” He looks up again. “How do you know it won’t come after me again?”

Jon has the audacity to drench his plate in even more syrup. “Because talking about what happened washed the mark off of you.”

“It… it did?”

“Yes, you had no nightmares and no connection to the Lonely anymore.” Jon shrugs. “Just be careful whenever you feel alone.”

“If the Fog is real, does that mean there are more real statements?”

“I could answer that”, Jon eyes him up and down and Martin feels a shiver running down his spine, “but I think you already figured the answer out yourself.”

“Uhm… yeah I guess so…” He stuffs his mouth with pancake before he says anything else. Anything about Jon’s eyes on him and the way they feel like a physical touch. Maybe Tim was right about his death stare.

But Martin has to admit that being stared at – being _seen_ – after a night like the last one, doesn’t feel too bad. He’s not see-through, hopes he never was, but just in case. Jon sees him just in case anything is wrong. It’s not, of course it’s not, of course. Things are going to be good.

“These are really good”, Martin says after another bite.

Jon nods in approval. “I like to make things myself instead of relying on baking mixes and ready-made dough.”

“Huh…”

“Which reminds me, your box is still somewhere here, you can have it back.”

“My…?” Martin frowns into his tea before he remembers the small Tupper box he gave Jon weeks ago with the brownies he made. With baking mix. His frown deepens. “I take it the brownies weren’t good?”

“I mean…” Jon shrugs. “They were okay?”

Martin nods. “Yeah, I, I tried cake, but… erm… didn’t work out that well. I burned one or two.”

“You… you burned two cakes?” Jon’s voice _sounds_ amused, his face however holds his characteristic frown. Maybe it’s his amused frown, Martin hasn’t figured that out just yet.

“Maybe… maybe three”, Martin mumbles barely audible, but Jon hears him anyway. His look of utter bewilderment has Martin snort before he can stop himself.

“Don’t tell me you never burned a cake.”

“Of course I have, but… Martin, three cakes? In a row?”

“I mean…” He grins into his cup at the memory. “My landlady called in the middle, and I forgot the oven. Besides, it was back when I just moved here. I vote for giving me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Benefit of the doubt?” Jon doesn’t notice the syrup that drips onto his shirt from where he holds the fork with pancake pieces just centimetres from his face. Martin does. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling.

“I’m sorry, but where do I keep the doubt in this scenario? You burned _three cakes._ ”

“Maybe just two”, Martin gives into his smile, “or was it four?”

“Martin!”

Martin laughs at Jon’s disbelieving look. He could really get used to this. Someone who eats with him, who shares his space, who waits for him in the morning after a dark night. He doesn’t have a lot of experience with relationships, his last boyfriend left him when he decided to take up the offer the magazine made him, because having a boyfriend who researched “made up spook stories” was too embarrassing for him. And it has been some years since he last had someone living with him. It would be nice to have someone to wake up with, someone to cuddle when the fog draws in, someone who listens to him the way Jon did last night. Maybe he really is just a little lonely. And maybe online dating could help him with that. If all he longs for is a boyfriend.

After the last bites of his breakfast are gone, Martin empties his tea cup in one go. Time to go home. Time to find his empty flat and convince himself he’s not lonely, while still fearing the fog coming in through the crack under his door. He might have to stuff a towel between. Just to be safe.

Alright.

_Thank you, Jon. Breakfast was delicious, I’m grateful you let me stay last night, but I have to go now. It’s not like someone’s waiting for me, but I have enough to do as it is. There’s still some leftover work, I still haven’t unpacked all my things. You know? Just being busy._

But Martin can’t say anything before Jon says:

“If you want to…” he trails off, waving to the kitchen, “I mean… I have everything you need for a cake. So if you wanted to…” He leaves it at that.

And Martin doesn’t know what to answer. “I… uhm. It’s… I…”

“You don’t have to, obviously.” Jon falls into himself, hunches down over his empty, syrup-sticky plate. “I just thought, maybe you’d like that? Then again, I don’t actually know if you like sweet things. I guess the brownies you made weren’t exactly for yourself.”

“No!” Martin waves his hands in front of his face. “No! Jon, don’t worry, I’d… yes, don’t worry. I don’t have much to do anyway.”

Jon frowns. “So you’ll stay?”

“I… sure, yes, I can stay.”

And Jon smiles. His smile doesn’t dispel his frown, but it lessens it a bit, softens his face into something too gentle for Martin to turn him down. All Martin can do is smile in return and nod a little more enthusiastically.

“What kind of cake do you want to bake?”, he asks as Jon doesn’t offer any other explanation.

“Uhm… what, I don’t actually know what you like? In terms of taste? I always”, he pushes his glasses up, “just imposed on you and decided without ever consulting you. I am… I am sorry. It’s your choice.”

“Oh…” Martin says. Oh, indeed. “Well maybe, uhm, I don’t know what kind of ingrediencies you have home, but, uhm…? Cho-chocolate cake sounds really easy. I mean, that’s, that’s what I tried and… uhm failed.”

“Oh, sure, chocolate cake.” Jon hesitates for a second, then nods. “Yes, I have everything required. I’m getting everything ready, you can… do you want to change?”

“Uhm…” Martin looks down at himself. It’s not like he has many things lying around here, but wearing the jeans he fussed over yesterday, he rather sticks with the tracksuit bottoms.

“No, it’s alright. Just…” He holds up his plate. “Let me do the dishes first, I know it’s unconventional to let your guests help out like this, but I feel bad for… uhm… imposing.”

Jon hands over his plate and cutlery with no fight whatsoever. “Please, who am I to deny you your heart’s desire to do my dishes?”

Martin grins. This is easy. This isn’t half as awkward as it might have been had he insisted on going home. Besides, figuring out how to bake was pretty high on his priority list anyway. And there’s far worse housework than washing dishes. For example everything he does without company. While scrubbing and cleaning, Martin keeps up a steady stream of chatter. It’s easier than it was just this morning. Maybe because he’s more awake now, maybe it’s really the effect that fog had on him.

Still, he can’t blame the fog for everything. Part of it was just… him. A familiar part of him he usually suppresses well enough for nobody to notice it. He’s not a selfish person, his altruism put him in trouble before on multiple occasions. People like to use him, and Martin lets them. Because what else is he good for if not for use? Sometimes, however, he doesn’t want to. Sometimes – even back at school – he snapped at mom when he had enough. Sometimes, he talked back when things become too much. Sometimes, he refused to be useful.

Martin says none of these things as he chatters to Jon about work, about Sasha and Tim, and his finite decision to try Katy’s beany pattern. It takes him a good ten minutes to find the dishwasher hidden behind an inconspicuous door. By then, the plates are washed and dried and Martin can’t do anything but throw a look over his shoulder into Jon’s direction. He looks at him from the rim of his cup. The cat ears frame his eyes between them.

“Yes, there is a dishwasher”, he says as if he just read Martin’s mind.

“Well, why didn’t you say so before I got up to do these?” He waves to the clean plates and forks and knives.

Jon takes a sip of his tea. “Because you seemed so happy doing them by hand.”

Martin can’t object. Oh, he wants to, but Jon is right. He was happy to have something to do with his hands, some excuse to finally be useful again, to finally play perfect little world. It… worked.

His shoulders sag. “Right…”

“Now” Jon sets his cup down “the plates go into the cupboard right over the sink.”

“Oh, yes, right.” Martin immediately turns to set them to their places. “Where do…?” He holds up the forks.

“Second drawer to your left.”

Indeed, Martin finds the rest of Jon’s cutlery there and knives and forks vanish in there.

“Alright!” He claps his hands and wipes them off on one of the dry towels. “All done for now.” When he turns around, Jon looks at him with a crooked smile on his face.

Martin fidgets with the towel in his hands. “What?”

“Ah, nothing.” The smile rights itself just as Jon does, who sits up straighter. “It’s just that usually when I have guests over, I’m the one cleaning up after them.”

“Oh…” He hangs the towel back over the handle of the oven. “Yes, well, I just felt bad for letting you do everything. Because, you know, I won’t be any help when it comes to actual baking.”

Jon rolls his eyes. It is, Martin reminds himself, a very annoyed gesture and he shouldn’t have to fight a smile just because it’s so familiar by now.

“Nonsense”, he slides from his chair and rounds the kitchen island. “Everyone can follow simple instructions.”

Martin forces himself to smile and shrug. He heard those words from his mom often enough. _Martin! Everyone can wash clothes, everyone can sort pills for the day, everyone can tie a cravat, except for you I guess!_ What a disappointment he was. He really doesn’t want Jon to lose this soft expression his frown can’t break up entirely. He knows he will disappoint him at some point. He always does. No matter how hard he tries.

“Well, I guess there’s always someone, who can’t do it”, Martin says. He laughs, all nerves and jitters, rubbing his neck with one hand.

Jon is counting out eggs and placing them – not half as gently as Martin would have – in a bowl for later use.

“No, there are only insufficient instructions”, he says, setting out a modern kitchen scale, “and if the instructions were clear and people still can’t do it.” He shrugs. “Well, I guess then they never had anybody to show them how to do it properly. You can’t really expect someone to just”, he snaps his fingers, “magically know everything they need. That would be crazy.”

He smiles. There’s a joke hidden in his words, somewhere, but Martin can’t make it out.

“Besides”, Jon keeps talking as he moves through his kitchen with the same precision he had while making pancakes, “this is not about asking you to fulfil some impossibility you wouldn’t be able to even with instructions. Baking won’t require you to fly over the village with self-grown wings.”

This time, Martin catches the joke. It’s balm for his anxieties.

“Do you know how this works?” Jon holds his kitchen scale up, turning it just slightly until Martin takes it.

“Uhm… yes, I do actually.”

“Perfect.” Jon hands him a high metal can with flour. “Measure out 250 grams please?”

And surprisingly enough, Jon’s instructions are very clear and very easy. Martin measures out sugar and margarine – after the flour and in separate bowls. Jon cracks eggs and has Martin melt chocolate while he mixes everything together and prepares the form to actually get the cake back out after baking it. Martin spills an entire carton of milk at one point – his hands are shaking badly, he forgot something, didn’t he? It can’t be this easy, it never was – and Jon nods to his fridge.

“Take a new one”, he says, already mopping up the spilled milk and binning the carton. It’s really no use crying over spilled milk. Martin cheers himself up with the joke, but Jon catches it and lets out a laugh that has Martin grin even wider than before. It seems, things really can be this easy. Even for him.

“You should do this as a job”, Martin says, kneeling in front of the oven, watching the cake rise through the little window in the middle.

“What?” Jon doesn’t turn to him. “Baking?”

Martin looks up. “Teaching.”

Jon pauses for a moment just to shoot him the most unconvincing disapproving glare Martin has ever seen. The smile that curls around the edges of his lips, the little sprinkles of dough on his cheeks from when he set the hand mixer on a too strong setting too quickly, and the fondness in his voice makes it quite clear he’s very pleased. With himself or Martin, that’s another question entirely. One, Martin doesn’t want to ask or answer. This is enough for one day.

“Martin”, he says. Martin can’t say he’s use to Jon saying his name like this. All fond and soft. If he had had more friends like him back in London, maybe he wouldn’t have moved up here. But he’s glad to be here now. To share this.

“I mean it, Jon.” Martin turns back to the cake. “It’s your calling.”

“Well, I would hope so. Now, can you help me set the table?” He’s holding out two deep plates. Different ones than those they used for breakfast. Martin takes them without hesitation.

“I… sure? I never knew cakes would be ready this easily?” Still, Martin does as he’s told, then comes back to fetch them both forks, but Jon holds out spoons as well.

“Oh no, the cake takes another few minutes, but it’s already half past three in the afternoon and I thought you might be hungry? I still have leftover noodles and can whip up something quick that won’t take longer than the cake.”

“Mhm, sure”, he takes spoons and forks from him and sets them on the table. “I actually think it’s the time why I- wait what?”

Jon looks up from a pot he’s filling up with water. “What? Is something wrong, Martin?”

“It’s- no, it’s not, nothing’s wrong. I just… is it really half-past three already? I’m, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to stay this long. I forgot the time.”

“Oh, it’s no bother. I invited you after all.” Jon waves Martin’s concerns with one hand away. It doesn’t work very well.

“Yes, alright, but you really don’t have to cook dinner as well.”

Jon shrugs and sets the pot with noodles on the stove. “Maybe I’m hungry? And you’re here as well, so you can join me, can’t you?”

“I… Jon, that’s…”

“Unfair?” He has the audacity to smirk. And Martin blushes dark up under his hair.

“Yes.”

“I suppose we can’t have that.” He doesn’t turn the stove off. “Besides, why do you think you want to be alone so quickly again?”

“It’s not that I want to be alone, it’s just that at one point I have to go home… I think.” But what awaits him there? An empty flat and boxes that judge him from the places he has yet to move them from. Some ready-made meal he bought at the supermarket a week ago. An evening alone with his poetry and maybe his TV if he finds an interesting movie or documentary tonight. A rather lonely prospect. What a lonely life he lives.

“Oh…” he says.

Martin has no desire to leave anytime soon. He probably should – it’s rude to overstay his welcome, but for now Jon has yet to say anything else than making sure he stays in company.

“Will… will I ever be able to live life normally again? Without wondering if something I think and want is influenced by the Lonely?”

In the meantime, Jon set up a pan and filled it with a crème-white sauce and some herbs left to simmer in it.

“Of course you will, Martin. These things are like frisbees. When they hit you square in the face, they knock you down and maybe leave a mark. But if you don’t try to pick them up and search for them and their origin, the worst you have is a black eye and a headache. There will be a time when the black eye fades, it just takes a little while until you’re all healed up.”

Martin frowns. “That… doesn’t sound right.”

“It doesn’t?” He stirs the sauce with a wooden spoon. “Well it should, Georgie explains it like this and I found her explanations are much better received than mine.”

“Maybe I want to hear your explanation?”

Jon snorts. “You don’t. Now, can you watch this? I’m taking the cake out. It has to cool.”

♣

It’s already dark outside when Martin gets home this evening. He had lunch with Jon, then helped him clean up again, then had tea while they waited for the cake to cool enough to cut it. Martin has to admit, the stories Jon shared with him sounded exactly like the kind of things Sasha and Tim would get themselves into. Especially Tim’s very effective seduction methods to get his hands onto top secret files in different police departments.

They didn’t share the cake, unfortunately, but Jon insisted on him taking one half of said cake. Because without him it wouldn’t even exist. So here he stands, one half of a chocolate cake on his kitchen counter, his phone plugged in (it died at one point during the day), and his tea seeping in the faded patterned cup of his set.

The note that says “Everything will be okay” in his own writing smiles at him and Martin smiles back. He was right back then. Things don’t always work out that well, but at least he had the chance to meet his dad, find out he’s a stuck-up asshole, and then… well. Have his own encounter with the supernatural. And tea with Jon. That, too.

Which reminds him, he promised to text him as soon as he got home safely. He didn’t walk him – there, Martin decided to put his foot down – but still worried about him more than Martin ever worried about himself in his entire life. When he turns his phone on – still charging – it dings with several unread messages Martin hasn’t even noticed. He sends a quick “I’m home =)” to Jon before turning to the other notifications.

A bunch are from Tim and Sasha, discussing something in their group chat. Martin tries to read it but gives up quick enough for it to make no difference. He only answers the messages they sent him privately asking how things went and if he’s okay.

The two messages his father sent him go ignored. One tells him he had a nice day, the other one asks if they could repeat this at some point. Martin doesn’t delete the number just yet. His time at Jon’s made it rather clear to him that he doesn’t know if he wants to see his father again or not. Maybe. Maybe not. But tonight is not the night to decide that. Tonight he keeps his smile as he slices himself a piece of cake and settles onto the couch with a plate and his note book to finally write down the idea he had this morning.

“Let’s see”, he taps his pen against his cheek over and over again, trying to remember the prose he spun this morning. Something about light, wasn’t it? Something nice and warm and hopeful.

“Tea”, he decides. He should write about tea, about the way tea reflects the light just right for it to colour the inside of the cup golden. About the way silver bands of stars are woven through the darkest nights, how they are mirrored in the greying hair of too young heroes. About stars in the eyes of those too hopeful to be left alone. About a life too hard to come out unharmed, and about the scars a life like that leaves, scattered over sensitive skin like raindrops on an otherwise dry pavement – or stars in the night sky if he wants to stay with his imaginary of light.

He drinks his tea and tastes his cake. It is, he has to confess, very good. Much better than his two or three (or four?) former attempts. And better than bought baking mix.

Only his phone calls for his attention once. Jon’s answer to his text is short, not prude, but very clear. He is probably not well versed in poetry, and probably not someone anybody would willingly write poetry about. What would that even look like? Poetry about Jon Sims? Probably “and his short answers and gruff behaviour hide a rather sweet core underneath” or something ridiculous like this. Martin laughs, his thumb already pressing on send to let Jon know he appreciates his checking up on him.

Now, where was he? Ah yes, poetry about scars and dark hair with greying streaks, about a helping hand and a voice calling him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot that this shouldn't be about bread, but about cake instead. Yeah, well, I hope you guys can forgive me =((
> 
> Next up: Spiders, constant daydreaming, and No you can’t just make it a date no matter how often you ask Tim


	13. How to dream of someone, of safety … of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No you can’t just make it a date no matter how often you ask Tim, constant daydreaming, and spiders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There is a Corruption statement that's heavily about mould and rot (and features mentions of parasites), I didn't separate it with a ♣ but it's marked very clearly by "and begins to read" and if you want to skip it you can just start at the next ♣ again
> 
> Edit:  
> TW: spiders, I forgot the spiders, there are a lot of spiders especially in the last part

When Martin wakes up he is disappointed. The feeling itself is one he is intimately familiar with, but it usually comes over him slowly, hiding behind small smiles and old jokes. A few years ago, Martin’s morning routine consisted of making breakfast for himself and his mother to wake her with. It was all he could do most mornings; bringing his mother said breakfast, convincing her it wasn’t half bad (even if it was just bread with cheese or some jam), then bringing her the pills for the day (and her injection on Fridays) – also leading to a discussion (not an argument, he would never call it that) to make sure he didn’t mess up and accidentally killed her. It was one of her favourite phrases back then, before the nursing home in Devon.

“You’ll have me killed with that carelessness of yours. Do you want that, Martin?”

To which Martin answered: “No, mom, I don’t want to kill you. I want you to stay alive, so please take these now?”

It was a tragedy in three acts.

This morning, however, his mother isn’t here to boss him around, neither to tell him not to eat cake for breakfast, nor to remind him to take the tea out every three seconds.

And Martin is still disappointed. This time, he can’t put a finger on why. The cake he baked with Jon tastes just as good as it did yesterday. The tea Jon gave him still holds his headaches at bay. He even received several texts this morning – two from Tim, one from Jon – lifting his mood as soon as he clicked his phone on.

So why is he still disappointed? What did he expect?

Martin looks over to the kitchen. He’s seated on his couch, the plate with cake balancing delicately on his knees, as he set one of his boxes down on his table, started unpacking and then got side tracked. On the kitchen counter waits the rest of his cake, some cups and plates sit in the sink to soak, his little note smiles at him. It’s all as it should be, but Martin still feels like staring into a hole in an otherwise complete jigsaw puzzle. He just can’t name the missing piece.

So he lets it slide. For the moment at least. His phone in one and a fork in his other hand, he answers his texts, munches on his cake, but he can’t keep himself distracted long enough to rid his mind of the lingering mess that swirls in his stomach. When he looks up again, he expects to see something.

Someone.

The kitchen is empty just like the rest of his flat, the dishes still soaking in his sink, his note smiling. Martin smiles back.

It would be nice to have someone fill the emptiness here. Someone he can wake up with, and drink tea with, and just simply be in love with. Someone he can talk to and listen to and hold at night.

He tries to imagine someone with him, a boyfriend he has yet to find. They would wake up together, cuddle until one of them peeled themselves out of bed. One of them would make breakfast and tea for them to eat together, chatting over fresh pancakes, trading kisses and soft touches. Even now, Martin can see Jon turning around gesturing with his spatula while he fills the silence of a still too sleepy (and Lonely-riddled) Martin. It’s such a nice thought, a picture too gentle for the sharp reality he used to call his life. There waits something even softer, right next to his heart, waits for him to notice, to fall and fall and fall for a picture perfect reality he can build himself.

_Maybe I should ask Molly to introduce me to her son after all._

But Martin’s fantasy breaks down as he tries to imagine someone else standing there, cooking pancakes and making tea. He shakes his head, lost to the sensation of a daydream so vivid he aches for the picture to come back. If anything, it should be him cooking and baking cake and making tea. It should be him who fills the silence when his partner feels no need to speak. It should be him who plays the fussy housewife like he did when his mother still lived with him, like he did when he lived with his former boyfriend.

At the very least it should not be Jon. Martin is the first one to admit he crushes easily, and while Jon has a certain appeal to him, he just isn’t his type. He is _not_. Besides, Martin has a slight crush on Kyle the postman, too. He’s very good-looking and always waits longer than he has to if he brings a package to his door and Martin doesn’t answer as quickly as he maybe should. For a while he was even crushing on Tim, but as much as he likes him as a friend, he can’t imagine a scenario where they’d be good boyfriends. In a different universe maybe.

So, yes, Martin crushes easily. That doesn’t mean anything could grow from it, no deeper feelings, just a fondness easily confused with friendship. Except Martin won’t confuse it, he refuses to. He has something good here, a cosy little life he built himself, something far better than he deserves, so he won’t ruin it by confusing his feelings for Jon or Tim or whoever else he might find himself rather… interested in. Most of his former relationships didn’t even start with him crushing on someone, but with people just deciding to talk to him and Martin went along with it.

Maybe someone will take an interest in him soon. It would certainly be nice.

The phone he’s still holding makes an angry sound as it vibrates with a new message. Unfortunately, it’s not a mysterious new number belonging to a hot, rich bachelor with a deep love for cute animals and poetry, and a preference for chubby men. It’s Sasha asking for his thoughts on a statement he took home on Friday to read over the weekend. Something he has yet to do. He tells her as much, but peals himself off of his couch immediately, dumping his empty plate into the sink to soak with the cups and forks and a bowl he used for his instant noodles instead of a plate.

Sasha’s message reads: _Can you send me a short synopsis of Statement 0120604? I think there’s a connection to Statement 0121403_

Martin keeps checking the number on the statement he has to make sure he finds the right one and doesn’t send Sasha something wrong. He finds it as the very last one in his pile, buried under one of the statements he already worked through and just wanted to cross-reference with others. He put it last simply because it was so long. The paper clip in one corner barely holds all the pages together. Somewhere in all those words lies something Sasha looks for and Martin is determined to find it.

He has the rest of his life to worry about finding a boyfriend, Sasha only has the rest of this Sunday before she gets her hands on this monstrosity of a statement. So Martin sits down and begins to read:

_It was a cold December night when I first met him. Snow falling softly, the faintest of blankets weighting the world down. I often called it a Christmas miracle, even though I didn’t exactly meet him underneath a Christmas tree, or any mistletoe. Did you know, by the way, that most people use holly instead of mistletoe? It looks rather different, but many don’t see a difference. I guess it’s a good comparison. After all, mistletoe is a parasite. Many of its host trees lose the branches the mistletoe grows on. A too big infestation kills the tree entirely. And while they’re used in medicine, they contain a poison that, while not fatal, can cause symptoms you don’t want to experience over the holidays. So I guess it’s very fitting for us to meet in December, the time when cities and houses are flooded with mistletoe. Or holly, for that matter. He was my mistletoe. My poison, my parasite that crawled and clung, a fungus I never dared to wash off, never wanted to rid myself from. I suppose love does strange things to you._

Martin frowns. There are little hearts doodled around the last paragraph. They crowd in on the words, thrum with a desperation of a lover longing for their heart to come home. The paper is heavy in his hands, soaked up with love and desire and an insatiable hunger for something more, something deeper.

_Even stranger were the things that happened after we met. The meeting itself was, while very romantic, not the most important part of our story. It was, what happened after we moved in together. I know what you’re going to say: You knew him for less than two months, Thomas! You can’t just move in with random people you’ve met! Except that it just… we just fit. We were like mistletoe and tree, made for each other, meant to cling to each other and sacrifice what falls behind. So yes, we moved in together, well, he moved into my flat with me. And things worked out pretty well for a while. We had our little routine, still in that fresh in love stage of a relationship. He was a little clingy, I have to admit that, but… he was always gentle. He always held onto me, wrapped his fingers so gently around my hands, and he sang to me. He **sang**._

There is a force behind the last word. It’s crossed out a couple of times, then rewritten and underlined three times. Apparently, the statement giver tried to find a better fitting word but couldn’t find any.

_Sometimes, I still hear his song. His voice that reached out, wrapped around me like mistletoe around a branch. A melody I can’t live without anymore. I might have fallen into addiction, might have hung on his lips for a little too long to escape anymore. But why should I? Why would I ever want to run from a song so beautiful? From a melody that captures all of my essence so perfectly? Some days I think I will surely go mad if I can’t hear his song ever again. Other days, it’s me who sings. I think. I think I can imitate his song, I can hit the right tone just in time with my heartbeat. It sounds slower, these days. I think I can dance to its rhythm if it slows down a little more. We did that a couple of times, dance to his song when he moved in with me. Those nights were not the weird ones, I still miss them. I still miss him. No, it started to get weird when I came home from work and found a spot of dark mould in the sink’s drain._

The paper in Martin’s hand is just paper. But under his fingers, the wet slick of growing mould contaminates the white pages. It’s not really there, he knows it’s not. It happens with statements sometimes, something seeps through, something stains the words. But this time there’s… more. The slimy feeling of growing mould traces out a pattern. It’s harder than the lines of the words a sharp pencil carved into the paper. Harsher even, a stark contrast to the smooth disease the words carry. But Martin can’t place it just yet.

_The mould sang, too. It beckoned me closer, reaching out with the smallest of tendrils, desperately straining to reach up to me, to touch and take its share. Instead, I washed it down the drain with some water. I regret it now, I think. But I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore. Regardless, my boyfriend didn’t really care. He asked me if I had received his present. I said no and he just… he nodded. And then he started to sing again. The melody meant more than any kiss ever could, it was his soul, his very heart he bared to me. Opening up and letting me see beyond skin and muscles what lies underneath that crawls and itches, and reaches out with the smallest of tendrils, reaching out to me, to hold onto me, get stuck on my body, coiling around me like mistletoe around a branch. The next time I found a dark patch in my flat, it was on the wall right above the sink. It was black and purple like a fresh bruise on otherwise unblemished skin. In its centre grew small spores of white. Fuzzy little balls of soft, wet mould or spores or maybe fungi that found their way into my home. Our home, really. And the mould’s as it seemed. And it sang. Louder this time, it filled my head with funny voices asking if I was ready, if this gift was what I wished for the most._

The soft wetness of growing mould is unbearable by now. It clings to Martin’s fingers as he puts the page down and starts on the next. But he can’t stop reading, can barely let go of the paper to wipe his – dry – hands on his trouser leg. 

_Instead of accepting, instead of understanding, I drenched a paper towel in water and soap and scrubbed the dark patch with wire wool until I rid it of not only mould but also the first thin layer of paint. And again, my boyfriend asked me if I had received his present. I didn’t… I didn’t answer this time. I should have. I wanted to ask him to send another one, to make it right, to undo what I had done just now. Turn the hands of all my clocks until the wet, dark patch of growing mould was there again. Just so that I could give it the appreciation it deserves. That night, his song was so much quieter. I could only hear it from afar. And it… hurt. It still does. It’s like someone tries to separate us, tries to tear us apart. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m losing my mind. I know I will if I can’t hear his song soon._

The sweet-sour smell of rotten fruit hits Martin’s nose, but he can’t breathe around it. He can’t open his mouth to breathe, too afraid the smell has a source right in front of him. There will be something there, he knows, he can smell it. Something waiting patiently for him to open his mouth, to press in, to force him to bite down onto a mushy apple filled with writhing maggots and fuzzy white rot.

_I felt like drifting away. Like nothing I did was in any way the right thing to do. There were more spots of dark purple rot, more prominent white spores drifting through my flat, and I wore a mask, a scarf, something over my mouth not to breathe them in. They were parasites, they were my mistletoes just waiting for an opening, just waiting for my lungs to host them, to give them a home, to grow and overtake what I was before and build me new in the face of something bigger, something that loved me more than anything ever could. I reached out to touch the spots of mould, to rub my hands over it and feel it on my skin, to have it take root in my body and fester deep inside my heart. But every time I did, my hands held more soap and bleach and wire wool and every time I was done, my walls were scrubbed clean, no mould, no rot, no spores left to find._

Under Martin’s fingers, he can trace the second patter clearer now. The smell of mould and rot is replaced with bleach that burns in his nostrils. There is more to it, even though the mould is gone, there is more to it. Something that sprawls out the sharp lines of something else, something that doesn’t belong to rot and disease, something that leaves the poor statement giver drifting away from his lover of mould and parasitic mistletoe.

_She didn’t understand. I loved him. I should have followed him, listened to his song, be the home he so desperately needed. She didn’t understand. She had no right to interfere. He… he loved me, I know he did. And I would have done anything for him. He sang to me, he reached out and held me and filled my arms with the sweet scent of decay as his spindly tendrils engulfed me in the love I knew I desperately longed for, we both did. He sang my name quieter and quieter as the mould grew smaller and the patches it occupied lost layers of paint every time I couldn’t control my own limbs, couldn’t keep myself from destroying what loved me dearer than I ever could myself. She had no right to play with me like this. She replaced him! Let her own disgusting melody play in the corners of my flat. I found her, found them, underneath my bathroom sink, in the corners of every room, underneath my bed, in my closet._

The paper sticks to Martin’s fingers when he sets the page down and reaches for the next one. Under his hands it spreads out, clings to the corners, fills the back of the page with skittering little movements as Martin finally recognises the pattern that lies underneath the ever-growing mould. It’s spider’s web.

_The spiders infiltrated my flat, bound my arms and legs and every finger with thin strings of sticky web for her to move me like her puppet. She plays her games, she sets me back every time the delicious song of spreading decay sings to me. I can feel myself be lifted, can trace the outline of my body in the mirror and I’m still not sure how much of what I should have. More arms or just the four? More legs or just the one? I am being torn. I want my lover back, I want to sink into his voice, be the home he sees in me. But was that really him? Or was it her all along? I don’t think it was. I don’t think the Spider wants me like my love does. She just plays, she just finds amusement in my predicament. But what if not? What if I have always been a puppet? Can I really say that I am truly free to choose my God in a world that’s filled with spider webs?_

The statement ends there, and Martin breathes out hard. Cold drops of sweat roll down his forehead, his hands shake when he sets the last page down. There are around ten more pages, none of which have anything written on them, just the faint feeling of a spider’s web on their surface.

“I should”, Martin says out of breath, “write a short summary for Sasha.”

But he doesn’t. He sits there and stares the paper down. When he finally manages to get up, to force himself to move, he checks his entire flat for anything suspicious. He even ends up throwing away his perfectly good fruits just because one banana has a darker patch. The lonely spider he finds under his couch is long dead, spindly legs curled inwards, nothing more than a shrivelled shadow.

Martin throws it into his bin.

♣

**Friday**

> **Harry Blackwood:** It was nice! We should do this again!  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** Sure

**Saturday**

> **Harry Blackwood:** Hello Martin. I hope you got home safe yesterday.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Grace wanted to know a lot about you. She wants to meet you someday too.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** I have a feeling you two would get along well.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** And your siblings asked after you. Next time you can meet them too  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Martin? Are you alright? Did something happen?  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** my phone died, charging it now  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Okay 😊

**Sunday**

> **Harry Blackwood:** Are you free next week?  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** no, I have to work  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Over the weekend of course. Only Friday but Grace wants to clean the extra room so you can stay until Sunday if you want.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You can bring your girlfriend too.  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** I have to get back to you on this  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Of course. Whatever fits you best.

**Monday**

> **Harry Blackwood:** Good morning!  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** morning  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** I hope your office job lets you sleep in.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** If you work with your hands you never have a late morning.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Grace wants to know if you have any food allergies for our dinner on Friday? I told her you don’t but she wants to hear it from you.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You are free on Friday right?  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Henry sent me this funny picture  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** [picture]

Martin’s thumb hovers over the download button for a second before he places his phone upside down on his desk. He never thought meeting his dad once would result in the emotional baggage he now has to carry that comes with every new message. His dad really wants him in his life, while Martin still doesn’t know if he wants that, too, or if he should block the number. On one hand, he is really curious about his half-siblings, and his… stepmom. On the other hand, he’s sure this’ll end in more pain and loneliness. And if he can trust anything Jon told him over the weekend (and he is certain he can) he should keep his distance to any loneliness-inducing activity.

“What do you mean when you write _mould-related trauma_?”, Sasha asks next to him.

She has his short review of his disturbingly corrupted statement from Sunday on her desk. Right next to the one she is currently working on. As far as Martin knows, statement 0121403 has something to do with an oversized spider replica that eats an entire film crew, but nothing with mould.

“I mean”, he says, but his phone interrupts him with a short, annoyed vibration as a new message arrives. He flips it for a second, just enough to see the name lighting up his screen. It’s his dad, of course, but Martin doesn’t read the message.

“I mean, that guy is very fascinated with mould. And apparently he has a relationship with… it.”

Sasha underlines something. “Okay, so he lost the mould’s love because of a spider.”

“Yes.”

“Aw, young love”, Tim says from across Sasha. He’s leaning his head on both his hands, flashing him the widest grin Martin has ever.

“It was rather disturbing”, he says. Just out of reflex.

“I can imagine”, Sasha says and highlights “mould-related trauma”.

“Speaking of young love”, Tim nods to Martin’s phone, “why is Jon blowing up your phone? Trouble in paradise?”

Martin blushes deeply, his cheeks burn, but he resists the urge to hide behind his hands. “It’s not Jon.”

“Martin!” Tim doesn’t succeed in schooling his face into any resemblance of offence. His grin breaks it every time. “I would have never thought you to be a cheater!”

This time, Martin gives in and covers his face with both hands. “It’s just my dad”, he mumbles. “He’s trying to build up some father-son-bonding after twenty years of dead silence. He overdoes it a little.”

His phone buzzes with another notification and Martin picks it up just to bury it in his desk’s drawer.

“Oh”, Tim deflates immediately. “Sorry, I should have asked beforehand.”

“It’s fine. I mean”, he shrugs, “not really something that happens often. Not to me at least.”

“Still, I’m sorry. Parents can be… a bad topic.”

Martin nods, thumbing through a bunch of statements on his desk. “He wants me to come over this weekend to eat with his new family.”

“Are you going?”, Sasha asks.

“Maybe. I don’t think it’s a good idea, but…” He shrugs. “At one point I do want to meet them.”

“Well, but not this weekend.” Tim wiggles his eyebrows. He looks like the romantic lead in any bad romance whose producer decided on the story line of “young unassuming girl meets hot boy and falls in love against the wishes of her family”. Martin can’t say he ever had any friends like this.

“There will be a huge party this Friday. Huge. The best.” Tim opens his arms to show just how huge. “It’s my brother’s birthday and he’s renting one of the cabins for those honeymoon vacation guys, just far enough from the fields and farms to look like a fairy tale garden. Super weird place to celebrate, but I’m gonna be there, Sasha comes, too”

“Oh, I do?”

“And of course, you’re invited as well.”

Martin’s face is slowly returning to its usual colour, which is a little rosy sometimes, but not half as scarlet as this.

“I don’t know, Tim, I only really know you and Sasha.” Not counting the knitting group full of people he doubts have any interest in a party Tim’s little brother throws.

“You will get to know people there!”

“Oh I don’t know.”

“Jon will be there, too.” Tim’s most convincing tactic it seems. Bring the subject back to Jon and Martin will just blindly agree. He won’t, of course.

“That doesn’t really sound like something Jon would do?”

Tim just waves his hand. “Don’t you have a date on Wednesday? Just ask him then.”

And the blush is back with full force.

“It’s not a date, Tim!” _We’re just friends! I like Jon, but not like that! I don’t like-like Jon, we’re just friends!_ He bites his tongue before he can babble on, further convincing Tim that, yes, it is most definitely a date.

“Hm yeah, sure, tell yourself that.”

“Don’t be mean, Tim.” Martin really needs to take lessons from Sasha on how to sound both bored and scolding.

“Yeah, yeah, playing nice and all that, I got it.” Tim’s words come with a smile too wide to be innocent. “But you have to admit, Sash, Jon meeting up with someone regularly? He always refuses when I try to invite him out with us.”

“It’s because you can be a little too much for him.”

“How dare you?” Tim plays his offence well. He even grabs his shirt right above his heart. “Jon _loves_ me!”

“Hm yeah, sure, tell yourself that.” Sasha repeats Tim’s words right back at him, her smile audible in her voice.

He gasps dramatically. “Traitor! Oh the betrayal hurts! I’m mortally wounded!” With his arm over his eyes, he slumps back into his chair, not bothering to suppress his smile.

Martin doesn’t wait for him to recover from his mortal wound. Instead he ends the discussion by burying his nose in the next best statement he finds. To his luck – because, apparently, he has none left for the rest of his life – it’s another one from Mrs. Mary Willison. A short one much less concerned with anything actually supernatural, but with her request to her daughter-in-law to transfer her grandchildren to a different school before they have any chance to encounter one of the “mind-corrupting witches”, which Martin assumes means Jon. She writes about how her son and his wife are already enthralled by the siren song of the witch’s calling, but Martin only skims the statement. It’s not real, he knows it already. Mary had no direct contact with the thing she claims to be supernatural, besides, Jon is the least supernatural thing in this village. If Martin had to set up a ranking, Jon would end up at the very last spot.

He knows a lot because people like to talk to him, but that’s neither a crime, nor a supernatural ability. Maybe his cooking skills are, though, or his green thumbs in gardening. Just this weekend, Martin watched him spray his plants with a can and mumble “stop complaining, this water is perfectly fine, I know its pH level better than you” when he thought Martin wasn’t listening. Then again, people talk to definitely not-alive and have-never-been-alive objects, like phones, or plates that are just about to fall of an edge.

Does Jon also talk to the plants outside or just his houseplants? Probably all of them, right? You can’t discriminate between garden grown and windowsill grown herbs. It would kill the balance around the little cottage. Besides, Jon looks like someone, who cares for all of his plants equally. And all that Martin has seen this far looks like it was done by hands that never stop until something is absolutely perfect.

Jon does have rather nice hands. Even though Martin always has to fight the urge to fuss when he does something with his burned right hand. He struggles with closing his fingers, keeping his grip at times. Probably why he has yet to see him with his jacket buttoned up even though the buttons on it are bigger than usual. For easier access. He’s still trying to puzzle out how Jon dresses in the morning when he goes to school. The shirts he has seen him in so far had only the small kind of buttons that slip easily even with two healthy hands.

Then again, when he imagines Jon’s long slender fingers working their way on buttons, and plants, and pancakes, Martin can’t shake his smile. He doesn’t try to either. It’s a calming thought, something that sticks with him even as he actually feels his phone vibrating in his desk’s drawer.

“Oh yeah!”, Tim says, long since recovered from Sasha’s verbal assault. “You have the perfect excuse not to visit your dad. You have to go to Danny’s party. Please say yes.”

Martin is a weak man. He is very weak to puppies and kittens and the way Tim pouts and looks up to him with too much hope in his eyes to say no.

“Okay, okay, yes, I’ll be there.”

“Yes!” Tim throws both his hands in the air. “Score!”

“Should I bring a present? What does your brother want?”

Tim shrugs. “Something, Danny likes everything, he’s quick to repurpose things. He’s currently really into hiking and baking.”

“And showing off with better biscuits than Tim does.” Sasha grins, preparing her next attack. “I guess no ghost biscuits anymore, Tim.”

“Yes well”, Tim winks, “we seem to have _moved on_.”

Martin rolls his eyes but doesn’t fight his smile. Instead, he fishes his phone from his drawer and scrolls through the new messages his dad sent him. How much time does this man have at work?

> **Harry Blackwood:** Funny right?  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You aren’t vegetarian are you?  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** I’d have to disown you otherwise. Haha.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Another funny picture.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** [picture]  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** That’s what you young people look at on the internet? Henry sends me these.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Tell me when you’ll be here Friday Grace can time the dinner just right then.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** We can have a drink in the garden after. Just us men.  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** cant make Friday, Im already invited to a friends birthday  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Oh okay. A pity.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You can come later in the evening. It’s no bother.  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** its Friday evening  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** We should reschedule then. When’s the next time you’re free?  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** 1 sec

Martin puts his phone down again. He doesn’t check his calendar, just reads through another (fake) statement about a ghost trapped in a mirror. Then he goes to make himself some tea, thinks about it and brings Tim and Sasha tea, too. Only after taking a sip he braces himself and looks at his phone again.

> **Harry Blackwood:** Of course.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** It’s hard to keep all dates and appointments in mind.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** That’s what I have Grace for. She remembers everything.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** She’s also the only one writing things in our calendar.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Your girlfriend does that too right?  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Women are just better at all these little chores. If you give a man a hammer he will build you a house. A woman just finds the perfect place to put it.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** But that’s okay you need that too. You can’t just have your tools lying around. Someone has to organise them. Haha.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** And women hands aren’t really made for hard work anyway.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You know what I mean. Your girlfriend has the same problems.

His “girlfriend”.

Some imaginary partner he made up just for his father to stop trying to talk him into marriage. He never specified a gender, he’s sure he never did. Still, for a moment his eyes are drawn to his own hands. They’re big, rough in all the patches they should be soft. His skin is worn out like old gloves. He’s used these hands to wash dishes, to clean floors, to sew what ripped. If he looks for them, there will be marks from his knitting needles.

He thinks of Jon’s hands. The way he waves them through the air when he speaks, the gentleness with which he touches the leaves of plants with crooked spines and downturned heads, the clear indentations he, too, has collected over his life.

Martin puts his phone down again without answering.

“So this weekend is planned”, he says, “do you guys have anything planned for the next one? And the one after that?”

Tim’s head snaps up from whatever he’s doing there. “Oh Martin, Martin, Martin. You want some quality bonding time with us?”

His phone vanishes back into the drawer. “Ideally.”

“Well, you’re in for a treat then.”

“Martin”, Sasha says still with the same statements in front of her, “what do you mean when you write _spider-controlled_? And why did you underline spider about a million times?”

“About that…” Martin chews on his lips, searching through his bag for the original statement he packed this morning. He knows it has to be here somewhere. “I was thinking about our system to categorise statements.”

“You mean the true or false thing?”

He pulls the papers out, giving them a triumphant hum before spreading them on his desk. “No, I mean the categories of unidentified apparition, humanlike apparition, transformation into animals, and so on.”

“Okay?”

With his fingers, Martin follows the invisible lines that form a spider web etched into one of the blank pages after the statement. Like braille it stands out enough for him to trace it, but he can’t see it. Sasha takes the paper from him, feels the lines, follows them with her fingertips until she finds the very middle.

“Is that…?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“What is it?” Tim’s chair creaks when he gets up. His own research lies forgotten on his desk, all in favour of reaching for the paper Sasha is currently examining.

“It’s spider webs.” She hands it to him and Tim, too, traces the pattern with his fingers.

“Wait, didn’t you say the statement was about weird mould?”

Martin nods. “Yeah? But the spiders messed with it somehow. It’s… it’s unsettling, honestly.”

“Most of these are.”

“But it fits.” Sasha holds up her own statement, the one she wanted to cross-reference with this. “Maybe it’s because arachnophobia is a common thing, but we have a respectable amount of statements – true ones – that feature spiders in some ways or another.” She reaches over to a stack said statements and thumbs through them without searching for anything specific.

“Maybe we need a spider category.”

“Did we ever try to use categories like, I don’t know,” Martin ducks his head, “fears?”

“Like what?” Tim waves the paper. “Spiders? They’re usually under animal apparition with spider in brackets.”

“Maybe take it out of the brackets. Use it in general?”

“I mean that would include people transforming into spider monsters”, Sasha says. “Or maybe we can go with _insects and arachnids_ as a new category? We also have many statements of people having their fair share of problems with people who… turned into insects. Maybe we can go through the spider apparitions again to see if there’s a pattern.” Sasha hands Martin the page back. “Bring this to the storage, maybe we can check later on if there’s any danger to them”

“Danger?” Martin eyes the leftover pages. “Like… uhm… Magnus books, right?”

“Yeah, sometimes the pages are enough to bring some curse on you or something. I think some intern once lost all his teeth from nothing more than a ripped off corner.” Sasha shrugs. “I don’t want to know what the entire book would have done to him.”

“O-oh…”

But Martin already touched these pages, didn’t he? And he still has all his fingers and teeth and toes. So another few minutes with them won’t hurt.

“If we’re not sure how safe they are, shouldn’t we give them to artefact storage?”

“We could, but that might take the statement off our hands, too.” Sasha shakes her head. “I’m not giving up on this. I want to know what’s behind the spiders and all the bugs, hell, even all the statements that sound more confusing than scary. There’s something more behind all of this, and if Leitner won’t investigate, then _I will._ ”

While Sasha speaks, Tim picks up the short summary Martin wrote for Sasha yesterday. He scans everything Sasha highlighted.

“You really think so?” Martin… doesn’t like the thought of something more being behind these stories, these statements. He has yet to tell Tim and Sasha about the Lonely and Jon’s explanations, but for now he wants to concentrate on not thinking about it. Best to keep away from the inhuman force that wants him for a snack.

“I mean”, Tim says in Sasha’s place. He points to a passage Martin quoted from the statement directly. 

_She didn’t understand. She had no right to interfere._

“It sounds a lot like the statement giver knows what spiders should and shouldn’t do.”

“Maybe he knows more than what he lets through”, Sasha reaches for the original statement and Martin hands it over.

“His name is… Thomas Bisset. The statement was given in… Hunstanton. He didn’t give his address, but there’s a phone number, we can call and ask for follow up.”

“I don’t know if this is…” But Martin shuts up when Sasha picks up her phone and dials the number as quickly as she can while reading the man’s messy handwriting.

Tim gives Martin a look and shrugs. They wait anxiously to both of Sasha’s sides. The call comes through, they can hear the faint sound of someone taking it, then Sasha speaks:

“This is Sasha James from Leitner’s investigative research centre for supernatural and occult phenomena. Would it be possible to speak to a certain Mr. Thomas Bisset?”

There’s a pause as the person on the other end talks and Sasha nods along and hums to show she’s still there. The most Martin can hear is the distinct sound of a human voice, but the words are lost to him.

“No, I understand. Yes, thank you very much. Oh don’t worry, you were a great help actually. Yes, thank you. Goodb—”

Sasha frowns.

“No, not that I know of.”

Tim mouths “oh dear” but all Martin can do is fidget with the papers in his hands.

“Yes, thank you Miss Bisset, thanks, yeah. Goodbye. Of course I can, yeah, thank you, bye.”

“So?”, Martin asks before Sasha even sets the phone down.

“So”, she says, “that was his sister. Thomas Bisset is dead. Died not long after he gave the statement apparently. She didn’t tell me what the cause of death was, but”, Sasha clicks her tongue, “shortly before his death he kept talking about someone called Weaver. A woman, maybe someone he met, she doesn’t know. She asked if it was maybe someone from the centre, but I don’t know anybody named that or anything similar.”

“Me neither”, Tim says. Martin just shakes his head.

“But yeah, that’s what we have. Thomas Bisset is dead.”

“Maybe he really knew too much.” A silence follows Tim’s words. It’s not a comfortable one. It hangs over their heads, heavy, sharp, like the blade of a guillotine waiting for the hangman’s word to fall. They all think the same thing. This is not a coincidence, Sasha is right.

Martin takes a deep breath.

“So”, he says and then nothing else. What else is he supposed to add? What else has to happen now? What else should they do?

“We rearrange the statements”, Sasha says. She sets both Martin’s summary, and the original statement down. “Tim, you send an e-mail to the archives and tell them that, in the light of recent findings, we have to rearrange our systems. We’ll mail them our new categories later. I’m drafting an official explanation to Leitner that we’re investigating older statements and any newer statements the scouts bring in have to be split to other departments for the time being.”

“You think he’ll grant you permission to re-organise the entire centre?”, Martin asks. He doubts it, but Sasha grins, already drawing her keyboard closer to start typing.

“Of course. Leitner is, after all, nothing more than a greedy old man. But instead of gold bars and expensive artworks, he just collects knowledge about the supernatural. He hoards it. So if I’m telling him we’re on the brink of discovering something new and truly unique, he’ll give me anything I want. Oh, by the way”, her hands still on the keys, she leans back and looks up to both Tim, and Martin, “you guys want a raise? Our current salary can’t be all he’s willing to pay us.”

“Hell yes!”, Tim says the exact moment Martin stutters: “B-but you can’t…”

Sasha nods. “I think we deserve it.”

“Hell yes, we do.”

Martin blushes pink. “I mean…” _more money would make my life even easier._ “What… what if we don’t find something new? What if we’re wrong and there’s no connection?”

“It’s not impossible, but”, Sasha shrugs, “very unlikely. There’s something more to this, there has to be. Random supernatural encounters? And aren’t you on that special project Leitner wants you to prioritise?”

“I…” Martin turns and wrinkles the sheet he’s still holding. “Yes? But… but that’s more general movement of overall all supernatural encounters towards”

“But why?”

Martin stares at her. “Why what?”

“Don’t you want to know why? Why are they moving?”

“I… I mean…” He sighs in defeat. “Yes? That’s kind of what I’m supposed to figure out.”

“Yes, alright.” Sasha makes a short pause before speaking up again. “But _what_ moves them? Is it only one thing? Are there multiple things that shift towards a common destination? Or are there multiple things on multiple different routes to multiple different destinations that just overlap in this specific place and time? How are they moving? Even broader: What is moving exactly? Is it the force from which the supernatural emits from? Or something that carries it like a virus? Or maybe even the statement givers?” She makes a broad gesture to the room around them.

It looks as familiar as his own flat at this point. High stacks of statements piling up into skyscrapers of paper and paperclips. The office is always full of stories and Martin has been alone in here exactly once. That one time brought him an encounter with whatever Michael was supposed to be, but it was enough.

“My point is”, Sasha continues, “we record and research, but we still know so little about all of this. Just about any discovery would be new and exciting. And I know we’re onto something. I can just _feel_ it.”

“And if not”, Tim says, “what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like Leitner can fire us.”

“Except that he _can._ ” Oh dear, just another possibility Martin hasn’t stressed about yet. Just what he needed.

“Yeah, in theory.” He shrugs all nonchalantly, like it means nothing to him. “But he has enough problems filling the still open positions, he won’t fire any of his employees, he really needs every single one of us.”

Martin takes a deep, grounding breath. It’s more on the deep side than the grounding one, but it does the trick. His voice doesn’t shake when he speaks, and he’s sure his cheeks are only a little rosy by the time he nods.

“Okay then. Yes, well, I suppose I could use some more money.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Sasha nods. “But, Martin, you really don’t have to worry, we are actually going to investigate all these things.”

Tim gasps dramatically. “We are?!”

“And!” Sasha ignores him. “There will be amazing results. Who knows, maybe we uncover the origin of the universe like this.”

She winks, somewhere to his right, his phone buzzes with yet another message, and Tim shoots him a couple of finger guns on his way back to his desk and his own research. Yes, just another perfectly normal day in his supernatural but perfectly mundane office job. Maybe he should have gone with “art historian” on his diploma, those definitely have neither important, nor potentially deadly jobs.

♣

Martin’s drive to Jon’s cottage is uneventful if you don’t count him getting lost twice. It’s a wonder, really, how it’s still so hard for him to find the way even though he has been over multiple times. It’s a little silly. Everything about this is a little silly. He meets Jon this Wednesday, there’s no need for him to bring him his cake plate today.

But it’s the only believable excuse Martin has to come over to his. And he wants some advice he knows Jon can help him with. He might not be in the same situation as Martin is right now, but he’s certain Jon has some… wisdom to share maybe. On the topic of Sasha’s searching for connections, on his dad, and maybe all this is just another excuse to have some good company over tea.

Unless Jon works in his garden again. Then they can sit down on his porch, overlooking his flowers, following the still sluggish bees drift through the air, watch them land on flowers and fly on with their golden treasure. There are only good options waiting for him, only things he can look forward to.

He has yet to answer his dad on when they should meet up again. A part of him wants to text a hard “never” and block the number, but there’s still that soft part of him. The small part that still reaches out and waits and waits and expects a touch that doesn’t hurt. Deep within him, there is still a child that forgot what it felt like to be loved and now chases the fleeting approval of whoever passes him. Maybe cutting his dad off before he can do any more damage is the safest, fastest way to heal.

They met, he found out his dad is someone who doesn’t really care about the consequences of his actions as long as they don’t concern him, and he already feels sorry for his poor new wife.

It’s actually for the sake of her – Grace – and the children she has with his father, that Martin even thinks about building up something resembling a relationship with his dad. Not that he actively needs him in his life, the last twenty years proved that he can function well enough on his own. But maybe there can come something good from this as well. Maybe he just has to give in a little, just has to play along for long enough to know if this is really nothing for him.

Martin already knows what Jon’s opinions on the matter are. He can practically hear his voice ringing with disgust at the mere thought Martin would spend more time with someone, who left him behind and then came back like it meant nothing to him.

_He hurt you, Martin! I doubt he has anything more to say for himself that can, in any way, justify not only his recent behaviour, but also his actions from years ago that brought you both into this situation. And now he keeps pestering you like you owe him the time he missed out on. No!_

Or maybe those are Martin’s thoughts just wrapped in Jon’s voice to make them sound more authoritarian. Who knows. He still wants Jon’s advice, even if it’s something he doesn’t want to hear.

When Martin parks his car right in front of Jon’s fence, he can already see the cottage in the back, nearly hidden from sight by the blooming plants in front. Spring has everything grow into green ballroom dresses sprinkled with colourful flowers and blossoms. He is really looking forward to seeing the garden in full bloom. And in summer. And in autumn. And in winter. Yeah, just pretty much all year around.

Maybe, he can help Jon move his pots around today. As far as Martin knows, not all of the plants that spend the winter with Jon in his house are outside yet. Some are not ready to move, some need a bigger pot, some need to be planted into the earth to stretch their roots. Garden work. Should be relaxing, should help him clean his head a little. All the home and garden shows recommend working outside to relax.

With the cake plate in one hand, Martin locks his car and makes his way to the small garden gate. On top of it, right in the middle, sits a garden spider.

It is a big one, with thick legs and easily distinguishable parts of its body. There’s a pattern on its abdomen that might make the species obvious to every expert, but Martin can’t tell anything from it. Just that the spider sits there, perched, and doesn’t move when he comes closer.

“Well, hello there”, he coos.

The spider raises one of its many legs when Martin moves even closer. It doesn’t look like a warning, not like he saw in so many documentaries, so it seems just a little… odd. Of course, it doesn’t offer any clarification.

“Where’s your web?”, he asks, not expecting an answer anytime soon. “We don’t want to break it, do we now. You worked hard on it.”

Instead of waiting for the spider to magically grow a voice box and tell him, he looks around the gate, makes sure it’s not right underneath the handle, or right where he walks when he pushes it open. But there is no web to be found.

“Are you perhaps male? A little Mr. Spider?”

The spider sits still, watching his every move, like a guard dog ready to alarm its owner any time. Or attack if it sees fit.

“I don’t think Jon likes spiders very much”, Martin says apologetically as if the little spider cared, “so maybe you shouldn’t live in his garden.”

The spider, for all its arachnid features, seems to actually consider Martin’s words. Then disregards them immediately by jumping right into the garden, away from the gate. Martin sees it land on the path and scurry away towards the house.

“Oh no.”

Martin pushes the gate open. He can’t let the little spider get into Jon’s house, he’s not a violent guy, but he would definitely make an exception for an overeager spider in his living room. Neither of them deserves this end, not a cruel death of being stepped on for the spider, nor the shocked panic Jon will break into upon seeing his house guest. So Martin hurries after it as quickly as he can. He’s just going to scoop it up and set it free outside of the garden. The fields are wide, it’s unlikely for the little thing to find its way back.

With his worries circling back and forth in his head, Martin nearly runs headfirst into a web.

It’s spun at the side of the path, but some of its strands reach out and over to the other side. A harvestmen spider sits in its middle, which is… actually impossible? Marin knows for a fact these spiders don’t spin webs. And definitely not webs like this one. But just a few steps further he finds another web, a different one, spun between the branches of a gooseberry bush and crossing the path again like a trap wire. A swarm of orb-weavers look up to him and one after another scurries off the closer he comes. And the closer he looks the more webs he can find, the more spiders he sees weaving their webs, scuttering around and away from him. More orb-weavers and webs cross his path, one or two funnel-web spiders lurk in their own webs, he has never seen as many spiders as this in one place. 

He likes spiders. He really does. But this? This is unsettling. The way they wait for him to come closer, the way they watch him pass and…

No.

They… no, they don’t watch him. They can’t, they’re just spiders. They’re just spiders. Cute little friends that keep insects at bay.

Martin doesn’t turn around and run because of one reason: he’s holding Jon’s cake plate. This is Jon’s garden. If he himself is this… unsettled by the sheer number of spiders around here, then Jon must be… oh he must be so afraid. The most Martin knows about Jon’s distaste of spiders is that he “finds them appalling at the best of times” to quote him on it. Which doesn’t really leave much to the imagination.

As quickly as he can without disturbing – or accidentally destroying – any webs, Martin makes his way to the front door of the cottage. There, on the porch, waits another garden spider for him, and Martin is tempted to say it’s the same one as before.

“Well”, he mumbles, a little out of breath from his way, “hello again. did you want me… to… follow you…”

_She had no right to play with me like this._

“You… you didn’t make me follow, right? I mean, of course you wouldn’t, I am… you’re just a spider, aren’t you?”

The spider looks at him, then it lifts one of its legs again. Like a greeting. Like a single finger beckoning him closer. Closer even, closer, just to hear it whisper, hear it crawl and spin its webs around him.

_The spiders infiltrated my flat, bound my arms and legs and every finger with thin strings of sticky web for her to move me like her puppet._

Martin moves his arms, just to make sure there’s no resistance, just to convince himself nothing moves him. The spider sets its leg down, and Martin moves back. Stumbling and cursing unsure of what else to say, of what should happen next.

_What if I have always been a puppet? Can I really say that I am truly free to choose my God in a world that’s filled with spider webs?_

But Martin is no puppet. He has… has his own decisions, right? Right? Still, he came here, for a decision he didn’t want to make himself. He came to see Jon, to get his advice, just to have a justification not to decide… no, wait, hold on.

He came to Jon for advice, sure, but he already decided on what to do for himself, did he not? He came here mainly for the company, to keep away the loneliness he knows will seep out of his walls if he stays in his flat for too long, too alone to breach the waves on his own. He’s not – Not! – letting anybody else decide for himself.

“This is ridiculous”, Martin tells the spider. The little thing makes a sad tapping noise and scurries off back out into the garden.

“Huh. Not that big with confrontations, are we?” Shaking his head, Martin makes his way onto the porch and to Jon’s front door. There is a web in the left corner, but no spider sits in there. He knocks, looking both sides just in case Jon is on his way from the back of his garden with that ridiculously big watering can he can barely lift.

When nothing happens, he knocks a second time. And a third time.

“Jon?”

Nobody answers.

Martin knocks a fourth time. Frantic, this time, harsher, with his fist instead of his knuckles – and the door swings ever so slightly inwards.

Immediately, Martin sets down Jon’s plate and grabs his phone. This is not what he expected to find, this is not what should happen at all. He opens the door with one hand, with the other he unlocks his phone, already dialling 999, ready to call an ambulance in case – no. It’s just to be safe, just to calm his own heart that screams and jumps and pounds against his ribcage.

“J-Jon?” His voice is high, not panicked, not yet. He shouldn’t panic, that’s the last thing Jon needs right now.

The house is not empty, but it’s not Jon who occupies his armchair. It’s a woman, drinking from a white tea cup with red and blue floral pattern like she belongs here. She is thin, too thin just like Jon always looks a little too thin. Her skin is dark brown, her hair kept short and bleached blond, but on the side of her skull, Martin can see the criss-crossed threats of woven spider silk on her temple.

“Well.” The woman sets her cup onto a saucer that’s not meant for it. It’s bright yellow with a geometrical pattern that clashes with the organic forms of flowers on her cup. “I guess, you are Martin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archivist Sasha would dig into the Fears and their origin deep enough to unearth the Buried
> 
> Just by the way, I'm an art historian and we don't encounter curses half as often as the archaeology guys
> 
> Next up: an uninvited guest, the number you have dialed is emotionally unavailable, and even more spiders


	14. How to cut through silver threats … and spiderwebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> even more spiders, the number you have dialled is emotionally unavailable, and an uninvited guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love all you guys just handing out kudos and comments, you’re the backbone of society, thanks so much! I hope you can enjoy this chapter! Honestly, the Web is.... mmm, I don't like the Web, I wanted Annabelle to show up at least, have some things to say and to do, but I don't really like the Web? It's the most boring fear. But yes, here's the Web with Web specific triggers:
> 
> TW: Spiders, slight body horror

Jon is a very clean person. He has specific shirts, trousers, and skirts he uses for gardening and cleaning that he doesn’t care too much about getting dirty. His braid may loosen over the day, but his hair always looks soft and taken care of. His cottage is much the same. It’s both clean, and tidy, and Martin found himself self-conscious about the dust collecting on the top of his unused shelves thinking about it.

Seeing his cottage spun up with spider webs in every corner, leaves Martin anxious. This is wrong. This cannot happen. Not to Jon.

“You can come in”, the woman says, waving over to the same soft couch Martin sat on just this weekend.

A shiver works its way down his spine, reaching for his legs, to move him, propel him forwards onto said couch. Martin digs his heels into the floor boards. He will not, in no way in hell, do as she wants him to. And, oh boy, he can be stubborn.

The woman smiles an uncanny smile when he refuses to move. “You’re a special one, aren’t you?”

Martin tightens his grip around his phone. “Where is Jon?”

“Oh don’t worry about him.” She waves her hands through the air. Spiderwebs cling to her fingertips, dance with every movement. “He’s rather… occupied at the moment, you really don’t want to interrupt.” She winks.

Her eyes are… wrong. They gleam like shiny pearls instead of actual eyes, the eyes of a spider – one pair only – set into a human skull. She rests one elbow on the armrest of Jon’s armchair, her fingers still moving in a pattern Martin doesn’t understand. She doesn’t gesture, just pulls on the strings her fingers are connected to until they go taunt or loosen up until she pulls again. Behind her, on the walls and on the ceiling, spiders crawl up and down back at forth, doing… something. Martin has yet to find the courage to look up, to let his gaze stray from her.

“You”, he stops, clears his throat, then says: “You tell me where Jon is right now –“

“Or?” She smiles. In the corners of her mouth lurk pinchers, fangs more like those of spiders, ready to inject their venom.

Martin swallows a whimper. “Or I’m calling the police. I don’t know what you think will happen, but this is breaking and entering.”

“Will you really?”, she asks, too unconcerned by his threat. “Are you sure, you still _can_?”

“I have my phone” _right here._ His fingers tingle. Something taps slowly, softly against the inside of his palm. A gentle pressure of something inside his fist, something tapping and nudging against his fingers, something wanting to be let free.

If he looks down, if he raises his hand, will he hold his phone? Will there be something else trapped between his fingers, squirming, crawling, desperate to get out of his grasp? What did he really grab, when he reached for his phone to call an ambulance? A spider? Which one? The garden spider that led him here? One of the hundreds of orb weavers he saw on his way here?

“So?” She hums, her fingers are still moving but… no. No, she has only two arms. Humans only have two arms. “Why don’t you call the police?”

More tapping, the wiggling of a living thing in his fist.

Martin breathes in deeply. Spiders run when threatened, they don’t wiggle and squirm and try to burrow themselves deeper into the thing they’re trying to escape from. And Martin tightens his grip, until the tapping and tingling stops.

“I should, I really should”, he says, then finally raises his hand and finds his phone there. No smudges of anything living, nothing that ever moved. He holds it out, wields it like a shield in her direction. “I knew it.”

Martin doesn’t know what he expected from her when she sees he’s not scared of her tricks. Maybe to jump up and grab for him, to send her spiders after him, to attack him in some way for seeing through her scheme. He doesn’t expect her to break into a grin so wide the skin on her cheeks cracks like the shell of a snail under a shoe. Her fingers still, the threads pull taunt for a second, they fall down around her feet. She claps her hands together and throws her head back. Her laugh is girly, unfit for the body it comes from, but it sounds honest.

“Oh, I _like_ you!”, she says still grinning, her fangs barely hidden behind her lips. “Usually, humans just squeal and fling their phones away. It’s really entertaining. You though…” There’s a glint in her eyes, a flash of interest, of maybe something akin to curiosity. “You don’t seem too concerned.”

All Martin can do is standing his man. If he moves back, he will run, back into the spider invested garden. He’s not going to. It’s what she wants him to. To see him do just about anything, run, move closer, attack, anything. But Martin stands still, his arm still outstretched, his face carefully arranged into a blank façade that just slightly betrays the smouldering panic underneath.

“I’m not afraid of spiders”, he says. Slowly, cautiously, he lowers his phone again. This is not one of those situations when the police could actually help. This is not just any robber. This is supernatural. And Martin has a terrifying idea of what he’s looking at.

“Oh but you should be.” Her hands start moving again, fingers pulling at strands of silk Martin can’t see the end of.

“I don’t think so.” He focuses on his breathing, forces his voice not to shake when he speaks again: “I know you are one of _them_.”

One of the things he reads about. Something that feeds on fear. On _his_ fear if he lets it. But he won’t. He can’t lose this battle. If all these things feed on others’ fear, if they devour humans, trap them in their own terror, then he really needs to find Jon. He can’t let her trap him, can’t have her tear scream after scream from him as her spiders weave him into a tight cocoon of webs and silent panic. This is not something he can afford to lose.

“Of _them_ ”, she tastes the word on her tongue, lets it vibrate through her ribcage. And Martin can’t say with certainty that there’s skin under her vintage dress at all, or if her body is encased in an exoskeleton as well.

Martin fights his voice back into his throat, swallows all preservative instincts that scream at him to run. It is, again, what she wants, isn’t it? There’s a meal waiting for her, maybe close by. Oh god, maybe Jon lies behind the kitchen island, already woven into silk too tight to even squirm.

“Yes. You feed on fear.” His voice is quieter now, but still audible. He hopes it gives him an air of superiority instead of simple uncertainty. “You’re like the Lonely.”

She clicks her tongue. “Oh I do _not_ like that comparison. The Lonely is not half as elegant as my webs are.” Her fingers pull at a string, sharper than before, jerking it closer and closer towards her body. “But, yeah, sure, I am of the Fears. So? Are you afraid now?”

“Are you going to eat me?”

Again, she laughs. “No. I’m quite fed, thank you.”

The words set his nerves alight. She’s fed, she already ate. What was it? _Who_ was it? For how long has she been here? Was she… Were the texts he received over the weekend even from Jon? Was it her all along? Martin digs into his memory, forces himself to search for the slightest trace of a spider, of a web, of lingering wrongness at the time he spent at Jon’s last Saturday. But there’s nothing. No weird mention, no spider. Then again, in Sasha’s statement the victim had long been devoured by the time someone thought to look for him. Instead it had been a puppet, hung on spiderwebs, moved by them as well, who interacted with other people. Could he… no. No that’s cruel. She can’t do that. She just…can’t!

“Where’s Jon?”, Martin asks again. There’s no calmness left in his voice, it hits higher, nearly screaming, flinging his suspicions and worst fears right at her.

This isn’t right. This isn’t _right._

“Honestly?”, she asks as if she isn’t sure if she could satisfy him with a well-thought out lie. “I don’t know.”

And is it a nice little lie, or a cruel truth she enjoys sharing?

“He doesn’t tell me things.” She shrugs. “Even though I like hearing from him.”

“He doesn’t like spiders.” 

“Oh I know, but there are worse around. People he likes even less.”

A big spider, bigger than most spiders Martin has ever seen, bigger even than he thought spiders could be, slowly lowers itself from the ceiling and onto the backrest of the couch. It taps its front legs on the fabric.

“Sit”, the woman says again. It’s sharper this time, far closer to an order than before. And Martin moves. His legs pull him forward, closer to the couch and the spider on it, but he doesn’t sit. Right before he’s close enough to just let himself fall into the cushions, he pulls himself backwards, stems himself against his body.

He doesn’t _want_ to move, doesn’t want to _sit_ , what is he doing, _what is he doing?!_

Spiders crowd him, skitter over the floor, raise their front legs at him. Thin threads of silver spiderweb are slung around his limbs, Martin can see them glint in the light. They go taunt every time he fights against them, every time he leans away, pulls at his legs with his own mind, a formerly free marionette newly bound by strings too strong to rebel against.

“What did you do?”, he yells. His voice is high, breathless, hurt.

“I’m just trying to have a civil conversation, Martin. You’re the one trying to make things more complicated. You’re being rude, you know?”

Martin’s resolutions falter too quickly for him to register anything wrong. He is being rude, isn’t he? Why is he fighting the urge to sit down so hard? It’s not like he has any proof she’s actually like the Lonely. Besides, she seems to actively dislike it. How bad can she really be?

He sits. The legs of the spider behind him fall onto his shoulders, tapping softly.

“You…” Martin breathes hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “You control people.”

“I don’t.” Her hands stop weaving, the string fall loose and Martin _feels_ the threads pull away from him. “I give suggestions. It’s just that I’m… very persuasive.”

“I… I can imagine…”

“Anyway, I’m actually very interested in why you came here, Martin.” She leans forward, reaching for the cup on its saucer. The movement has her entire form shift. Reality warps around her limps, curls into itself, unable to support her mere existence, unable to bear her weight in the fragile frame created for humans to walk in. Light breaks, opens up into a rainbow of spiderwebs coloured in all nuances of pain. Along the lines, the warped mess of a hundred broken worlds cling to limbs she shouldn’t have. Two more sets of arms move behind her, they go rigid as Martin looks at them, as his comprehension of what lies beneath reaches a breaking point and the world corrects itself.

Tea cup in her hands, she sits there, smiling, unconcerned. Martin has a white knuckled grip around his phone. His breathing is shallow, the sweat on his forehead burns cold on his skin.

“I don’t want to threaten you, Martin.” She takes a sip of tea. Martin follows the movement of her arms with his eyes, but reality holds together, all seams are re-stitched and this time it holds.

“Let me be honest, I didn’t expect to meet someone here. Except your precious Jon of course, so you were an interesting surprise, if nothing else. But…” She sighs. “But what am I going to do with you now? You have to understand, I can’t just… let you go.”

 _You could._ Martin doesn’t say it. He… could say it. Very easily, just move his mouth and lips, work the sounds from his throat, but does he want to? Does he really want to speak right now? To take up all these exhausting motions just to plead his already decided case?

“That’s right. You already know that I can’t, don’t you? But don’t worry. I’m sure we can find a use for you. Jon will be disappointed”, she hesitates, “Well, he might be properly mad at me for taking you with me, but… he has other things to worry about.”

Martin nods along, the spider behind him already busy scurrying around his shoulders and hands, up and down the couch, over his lap, back and forth. Busy, busy, busy. And Martin… well, Martin nods along.

“Jon might even miss you. He will definitely remember you, and isn’t that all that people want? To be remembered? But it’s not like he’s never going to see you again. You’ll be around, probably. One way or the other. You like spiders, don’t you? I have so many spiders.”

The spiders hiss and sway at this.

“You’re a trustworthy person. I’m sure with someone like you, I can attract many more people. It wouldn’t even hurt, you might feel a little”, she smiles, showing of her fangs, “controlled from time to time, but that’s okay. Say”, with one manicured finger she points to the ceiling, “how big do you think spiders can grow?”

“No”, Martin says. He doesn’t look up.

Behind him, the spider busy weaving webs around him stops in its tracks. The woman, too, stops. She just. Stops. Everything about her loses movement, the webs connected to her fingers fall loose, her chest – has it been moving before? – stills, her eyes stare, her mouth hangs open. She just stops.

“No?”, she repeats. Only her lips move, the word is more a breath than it is a word.

“No”, Martin says. He’s still holding his phone, the sharp edge of his phone case cuts into his palm. It hurts, barely, but it hurts. His grip digging and digging the little piece of plastic deeper into his skin. It’s the smallest point of contact, barely anything more than a needlepoint of pain. But it reminds him of all else that is around him, everything that isn’t webs and spiders and _her._

“I don’t…”

“Where is Jon?”, he asks.

“Why are you…? I… I don’t understand?” Her eyes move again. They jump through the room, from one spider to another, back to Martin, to her tea cup, everywhere, looking for an explanation, a second figure to grant Martin the ability to withstand her words. “But you should be bound.”

Martin shrugs. “Okay?”

She raises her hands, moves her fingers, and around Martin’s wrists, the spun web moves, tugs at his skin, urges him to move his arm oh so slightly. If he hadn’t known about the threads, he wouldn’t have noticed this to be a command from outside. But he knows and therefore doesn’t move his arm.

“Why… How?” She sinks back into the armchair. Finally, her eyes fixate on him. A thousand spiders, small and big, all crawl from the top of his head down to his shoe soles, their legs tickling and scratching his skin. It is, of course, just an effect of her eyes on him.

“You’re not afraid.”

Oh yes, he is. He is dying to get out of here, away from her. But these things feed on fear, they smell it, they gorge on it. And he knows that.

Nonetheless, Martin shrugs and says nothing more.

“Oh, I was wrong. I don’t _like_ you.” She’s grinning again, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I _love_ you! You should definitely come with me, not as a puppet, but maybe by your own free will.”

“Uhm… I pass.” He ducks his head when the big spider crawls down next to him, takes a seat there for a second, then moves on towards the armchair, where the woman holds her cup out for it to take. The cup finds a place on the back of the spider that quickly makes its way over to the table again.

“Thought so, yes, okay, so you’re looking for Jon?”

The atmosphere shifts too quickly for Martin to follow. It leaves him dizzy, leaves him missing out on something, like he missed the very last step on the stairs, but didn’t fall. He moves his hands a little further on the couch, sits a little straighter. With the movement, the strings attached to his limbs rip and fall away like any other spiderwebs would. He clears his throat, his phone still in his hand, the chipped edge of the case not digging into his skin anymore, but he’s better safe than sorry.

“Yes, I... yes, I’m looking for Jon.”

“Yeah, well, me too. I thought he would be home, but no, everything is empty.”

Filled with spiders now, his brain supplies ever helpful. “So… just to be sure, you weren’t lying when you said you didn’t know where he is?”

Martin speaks slowly, carefully watching her reaction to every word. He’s good at seeing the slightest changes in someone’s behaviour or expression. One of the skills he owns to his mother’s constant mood swings.

“Well”, she moves her head from side to side, “I might have an inkling. But that’s besides the point. How do you know him?”

“I…” How the hell was that beside the point?! “I… uhm, we have mutual friends.”

“How nice.” She leans forward, resting her chin on one hand. “Anything else?”

“Uhm…” Martin doesn’t know what else she wants, but he’s also not about to tell her just anything about him – or Jon for that matter. “No, nothing else. Uhm… just, how… how do you know him?”

“Oh that’s water under the bridge. We met when he was still working for Magnus. That guy burns through his interns like a candle through paper, but Jon survived.” She giggles. “Then again, I didn’t really pay attention to him, I was more interested in some of his colleagues, or superiors, really.”

“O-okay?”

“Yes, but as I said, that’s all in the past. Now we’re friends. Or at least not enemies. We have mutual friends as well, sometimes that’s enough.”

“Right…” Martin moves his arms again, just to make sure he’s really free of any webs. “And you’re here, uhm, just to visit Jon, too?”

When she wrinkles her nose, a spider lowers itself from her hair down onto her shoulder and further along her arm. “No, I was here to check on him, actually. To make sure he’s… well… still there. I worry about him, sometimes, you know? Elias is still _very_ interested in him…”

Martin barely keeps himself from jumping. “Elias?”

She makes a disgusted noise. “Yes, that bastard Elias.”

“Do you think… Jon is with him? Now? Could he be in danger?”

“Oh, almost definitely yes, he’s always in danger with Elias around.” One of her spiders comes from the kitchen with a second cup and crawls onto the table. “But I don’t think he’s with him right now. Tea?”

The spider with the second cup makes its way over to Martin, balancing the cup and the saucer delicately on its abdomen.

“I… uhm…” How safe was it to drink this? Or better question: How safe was it to refuse it? “Thanks.”

Martin takes the cup with the biggest smile he can muster, which is, to be fair, very wonky and counts more as a questionable twitching of his lips. Webs hold the cup on the body of the spider, they tear easily when he takes it. He doesn’t drink from it.

“Relax, I’m not going to kill you. Remember?” She leans back, far more relaxed than she has any right to be. “I like you. I would love to see what you get up to without interference? In my opinion, free will is overrated, but even I enjoy people struggle to come up with their own decisions sometimes.”

“Right.” He looks at the tea. It’s dark, not like the tea blends Jon has made for him so far, but it doesn’t seem dangerous.

“Right”, he says again, just for good measure, “and if Jon’s not with… with Elias, is he… do you think he’s safe wherever he is?”

“I don’t think you have to concern yourself with his safety. He can look after himself.”

Martin looks down into his cup. He can’t _not worry_ about Jon. He’s just so small, thin and lanky, and there are already so many scars dotting his skin, so many wounds he had to endure. And while, yes, his scars are tribute to his will to stay alive through all the pain life threw at him, Martin can’t just sit here and let it happen again, let him get hurt again and again. Just because someone is strong enough to live through pain doesn’t mean they should.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” He sets the cup down onto the table without drinking anything. “I have to go look for him, this is… I can’t sit around and drink tea without knowing he’s safe. I’m… I’m just going to look for him, okay? Just… uhm, just ignore me.”

He gets up on his shaky legs, but then just stands there, awkwardly positioning himself to move around the couch and further into the cottage.

The woman – Martin only now realises he never got her name – only nods. “Please, feel free to search to your heart’s content, but I don’t think he’s anywhere around.”

“Yeah, I… it never hurts to check. Maybe he… maybe I can…” He moves around the couch, keeping one eye on the woman, who just smiles a silent amused smile. “I could… I could call him?”

He’s still holding his phone in his hand, and really, what else can he do? Searching the house of course, yes, he will. And he will definitely bring scissors or a knife, whatever he finds in the kitchen. Just in case he does find any cocoons of spiderwebs that might hold her former dinner. He desperately hopes he won’t, but he has to be prepared.

Jon’s phone number is saved in his address book, so it takes Martin only a few taps to call him while rummaging through his kitchen drawers for something sharp (still while trying to somehow keep an eye out for the strange fear-related woman in the living room).

It takes a moment for his call to go through, but even then, it’s not Jon, who answers. There’s static for a moment right before a nice voice says: “The number you have dialled is not assigned. Please check the number and try again.”

Martin curses under his breath. He finally found a knife, but he’s still in the kitchen, unsure if he should check through the other rooms, if leaving the spider woman alone in the living room would do anymore harm than was already done.

“No signal?”, said woman asks. Her spiders sit on the kitchen counter, watching Martin like guard dogs. He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. She can read it all from his silence – or maybe she knew it all along.

“Too bad you can’t get through”, she continues, “maybe check the number? Maybe check if the person you are searching for ever existed? At all?”

Again, Martin doesn’t answer. He is definitely going to turn every single room here inside out and upside down, and if Jon isn’t here he… he will find a trace of where to look next. Maybe. Some seemingly unimportant detail, something he can recognise.

Just to be sure, he calls Jon’s number again.

♣

Reality is a weird thing. The closer you are to understand what counts as “reality” the broader your definition becomes. Are the Fears reality? Or are they not? And if they’re not, are they something removed from reality? Something outside with a certain amount of power to warp and change it? Or do the Dread Powers hold no influence over reality and can simply shed parts of their own reality into the one humans perceive as absolute? Is the intrusion of one reality into another, the overlapping of two dimensions, the creation of a newer, clearer reality?

Reality is a weird thing. Especially if you think about it a little too hard. And Jon can’t say he’s in the mood to philosophise about reality of all things. Not while waiting for something, someone, who defies reality for their daily amusement.

With his upper body, Jon is lying on the floor, both his arms stretched out to his sides, while his legs rest against the wall. He’s not wearing shoes, so his toes nearly reach the frame of the painting hanging there. It’s a painting of a corridor with a black rug on a yellow floor and more of the same paintings on the walls. The very same corridor Jon is lying in.

The Distortion’s doors may lead wherever it wants them to, but its hallways stay mostly the same.

There’s really not much to do around him, except wait for Helen to show him whatever it was she wanted his opinion on. Or maybe for Michael to feel the disruption in the corridor Jon is lying in, just to come over and investigate if there’s some forgotten human ready to be digested. Whichever happens first.

He hopes, Helen comes back soon. Michael never really liked him, rather just tolerated him. Helen knows him from the library – and if nothing else, she appreciates him introducing her to Melanie and Georgie and in extension the Admiral. Helen always loved cats.

The corridor doesn’t shift, and nothing comes out of one of the mirrors – or paintings, it’s hard to distinguish them, even for him. He can’t _see_ in here. Every time he tries to _know_ where Helen is, or what she’s doing, he just ends up with a headache that only stops when he stops trying to know. While the Spiral is not really antithetic to the Eye, it has its own ways to twist and turn, to make knowing and understanding harder than strictly necessary.

Still, Jon waits here. It’s the polite thing to do. And it’s bad for your health to offend an Avatar (or whatever the Distortion is, really) in their own domain. So Jon waits, stretching his feet to see if he can actually reach the frame or if his legs are too short.

He gave up on trying to check his phone. There’s no service here and trying to play games on it has it flicker back and forth from the game to the image of an endless corridor or a yellow door, so he switched it off. Better not break your phone because you were bored in an endless maze, no insurance pays for that.

So instead he stretches and thinks about reality as a concept because once you get in touch with something beyond human comprehension, you see things in a different light.

Jon is nearly done with his experiment of how far he can stretch without having to lift his upper body from the floor, when Helen rounds the corner close to him. It was, when he sat down, further away, but again, they have their ways to bend these things.

“What do you think?”, she says. She strikes a pose that looks vaguely uncomfortable.

Her hands with too long fingers and palms, smooth down the flapping legs of her trousers. She’s wearing leggings with one leg in neon-green, the other one in neon-pink. Around her ankles hang baby-blue leg warmers crumpled up just above smooth black pumps. Her shirt is a dull, washed out grey with an equally washed out picture of a disgruntled kitten on the front. It stretches around her shoulders a little, but still fits her perfectly.

“Is that my shirt?”, Jon asks.

“It might be”, Helen pulls at the hem with two fingers. “Then again, these are Georgie’s leggings and Melanie’s shoes.”

None of these things should fit her, they all have different sizes, but the Distortion makes everything possible.

“What’s the occasion?”

Helen lets go of his shirt. It doesn’t stretch over her shoulders anymore, just falls as if its as wide on her as it is on Jon when he wears it.

“I was invited to a theme party. Or rather someone I ate was.”

“Okay?” Jon stretches again, but there’s no way he can touch the frame with just his legs. “And the theme is?”

“Well, the invitation says…” She tugs a piece of paper from what Jon things might be a pocket, but it could easily just be the corridor handing it over. “ _Go wild, girl._ I feel like I will fit right in.”

Jon hums. He lets his legs fall to one side and rolls over to finally sit up. His back complains just for a moment.

“And you need my opinion for what exactly?”

“Can’t a girl just talk to a friend?” She bats her eyelashes.

“No.”

Helen pouts. It distorts her face and has the huge creole earrings jingle. “We worry, Jonathan. It draws closer and we worry.”

Jon sighs. He leans back, rests against the wall. “Elias’ ritual. Yes, I am aware. He started a new… collection.”

“Huh, and here I thought I was bringing you news.”

“It’s apparently very easy to forget that even the Archivist is nothing more than a Watcher with a little more power.”

Helen snorts. “A little more, yes.”

“Regardless, I can feel it. We all can, of course.”

“Of course.” Helen turns her head from side to side, looking at herself in one of the mirrors in the corridor. Usually it shows only the corridor and sometimes the Distortion, but now it shows Helen her reflection with no problems whatsoever.

“I worry, you know?”, he continues. “We have no idea why Elias started his new plan now. There’s nothing special this year, no grant event that amplifies the Eye’s powers, not like it was with the Dark and its eclipse. I can promise you there’s absolutely nothing. And Elias insists on being a nuisance right now. I mean, he always is, don’t get me wrong. But he’s… even worse right now.”

“Maybe he knows something you don’t.” She is currently fixing her hair, pulling the dark locks higher until they shouldn’t be able to hold anymore, but the Distortion makes everything possible. Sometimes, Jon’s body produces a couple more eyes to understand what he is seeing, but it never really works out.

“Or he thinks he does.” Jon chuckles. He had to sit in his fair share of meetings his supposed archivist had with Elias, all to listen to Elias ramble on about plans he “definitely thought through”. None of them worked out. At all. His last try ended with… well Jon.

“I like the colours.” Helen takes his shirt off just to reveal another shirt underneath. This one is tighter, hugs her frame well, it’s black with sleeves in the same neon colours as her leggings. Jon only gets half a look at her before his own t-shirt hits him square in the face.

“Thank you”, he says before pulling the shirt off his face.

“Did you talk to Annabelle, yet?”

“No, I’m waiting for her to send a text or a spider or just invite herself over. As of yet, there’s nothing. Maybe she hasn’t found anything yet, or she needs more time, whichever it is, I might just call her myself when I get home.”

Helen hums. “Don’t you, too, have a party to go to?”

“Oh… yes, I do.” Jon frowns. He promised Tim to be there for Danny’s birthday party. He even bought a present; a set of acrylic paints Danny was looking for, but never bought simply because he forgot to pack them and then didn’t want to go back just for paints he didn’t even know he would ever use. As a present, however, it was perfectly justified to start painting again.

“And you’re going dressed like that?” Helen gives him a once over before returning to her own outfit.

“No? Danny’s party is Friday evening, today is Monday, I don’t have to get ready for it now.”

“Huh.” Helen twirls her hair. “Time is weird. Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Very well then.”

“Are there any other news I should hear about?”

“Oh yes.” She crouches down next to him and pulls a second piece of paper from… the corridor. This time he’s as sure as you can be with the Distortion.

“Georgie gave me this.”

Jon takes the paper with a frown. It’s folded a couple of times, but in the end he holds a sticky note that lost all its stickiness, covered in Georgie’s clean, but at times too small hand writing.

 _Hey Jon,_ it reads, _Oliver says you had a sleepover guest last night? We’re all curious to know more about him. Daisy is a little worried, she says she knows him? I thought the pact was that I, as your very best friend, hears about all boyfriends first? For shame, Jonathan Sims, for shame. Daisy and I will be over some time soon, I have to see if I can schedule the new episodes for me to stay over longer than just the weekend. And you will introduce me to your mystery man, don’t test me. Love you, Georgie._

She signed the note with a little cartoon ghost. It is winking up at him.

“I don’t have a new boyfriend”, he says.

“Of course you don’t.”

“It was just Martin, I had him sleep over because the Lonely was out to get him.”

“Of course you did.”

Jon waves with his hand that’s not holding the note. “Besides, it’s not as if I ever went out with Martin. He’s a rather handsome man, I’m not denying that, of course not, I have eyes. Multiple eyes actually. He’s kind, and open, and always ready to help out.”

“Of course he is.”

“However”, Jon sighs, “he should look after himself a little more. I can’t always be around to help him out of the Lonely. Or any other entity for that matter. He needs more self-confidence. He really does.”

“Of course he does.”

“I don’t even understand what he’s self-conscious about.” Jon snorts. “Because he’s too kind? Too good to other people?”, he hesitates for a second, “Yes, I suppose people could take advantage of that. But I would assume there are just as many people who would do a lot for him as well. He has something special about him that just has people like him, apart from good looks and his admittedly cute smile. He also has a very captivating way of talking, even when he talks about knitting. I don’t even knit.”

“Jon?”

“What?” He looks up at Helen, who, by now, changed her hair, earrings, make-up, eye colour, and shirt.

“Do you even listen to yourself?”

“Ah… sorry, I was rambling.” He folds the note again and slips it into his pocket. “Was there anything else you needed me for?”

Helen pouts again. It makes her eyes stand out even more, which shouldn’t be possible. “Do you really think I kidnapped you for nothing more than just ask for your opinion on my outfit?”

She puts both her too long hands on her hips. Now, she’s wearing a long pencil skirt and a professional blouse. Professional for what, he can’t say. It looks appropriate for everything except maybe a funeral.

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Yes well, I would, I really would. But I didn’t. Let me see. I gave you Georgie’s letter, I warned you about Elias, hm.” She ticks off every new point with one of her fingers. “There’s something left. Ah yes!” She claps her hands together. The sound echoes in the endless hallways, the walls throw it back and forth without ever losing any of it. “Jude reported back to Oliver, that’s what I wanted to tell you.”

 _Really? And you couldn’t have started with that, could you?_ He swallows his words down before he can say anything. “And what did she report on?”

“They had a Desolation Avatar executed for treason.”

Jon frowns. He remembers Oliver’s presentation well. “Because they were working with Elias and the situation couldn’t be exploited?”

“I think so. It’s nobody we knew, nobody high ranking, really. But they’re dead now, apparently they stood in contact with a certain Lukas. Do you know Peter Lukas’ nephew? Evan?”

His immediate response is to reach out to the Eye, to See and Know whatever it can provide about Evan Lukas. But he stops himself before the massive headache can hit him like running headfirst into a brick wall. This is the Distortion’s domain. No Knowing unless he really feels the need to drink his own headache tea.

“Not on my own.”

Helen nods. “Well, it seems you have to deal with more than just one Lonely avatar around here. Jude didn’t get much out of them, of course. We all know her… temper.”

Jon flexes his burned hand. “We do.”

“The usual happened afterwards”, she sighs and goes back to fixing her hair. “Another dead Cult member for the Lightless Flame.”

“Did she find out anything else? Anything useful?”

“No, she just said to tell you without telling Elias in the process.”

This time, Jon gives into the reflex to roll his eyes. “And that’s why you absolutely had to abduct me into your hallways, of course. Helen, Elias cannot watch a building – and in extension the people within – without physically being inside or without a clear connection.”

“Yes well, I did want your opinion on my fashion choices.” She strikes a pose. Again. It leaves Jon vaguely dizzy.

“Alright.” Jon sits up attentively. “Show me what you got then.”

Helen’s grin is so wide and shining and happy, Jon can’t find it in him to be annoyed about the next few hours he’s spending in the Distortion’s corridors.

Reality is, as he knows a weird thing. And the weirdness of the Spiral is not something most people actually count as “reality”. For all its twisting turning, it still follows certain rules unique to itself. The hallways curve left, all of them. Only a few mirrors lead out or onto other corridors. And anybody reaching its heart has earned the right to taste the swirling madness of it. As both Michael, and Helen did. Something, Jon is not keen on.

After hours spend in a domain of the thing that lies and confuses, Jon feels more disconnected to the reality outside than the reality inside the hallways. The Eye tells him readily that Helen did not keep him in there for days, just for a few hours. Nobody seems to have called the police on his sudden disappearance. Even better.

Jon is still standing in the middle of a field now, because even if Helen likes him, even if she let him in and out without messing up his timeline or his mind, she definitely enjoys making his life more difficult simply by spitting him out as far away from his cottage as she can without him having to actually drive back. So he is walking home on socks today, silently grumbling to himself about how it takes him a million years to get back and these socks will never get clean again. The Eye, however, is delighted to let him know that No, it won’t take years to get home, and Yes, he will be able to clean his socks again.

The Fears, Jon learned as a first rule, don’t like anything interrupting the link to their servants. But if it happens in any way (mainly because of another entity) there will be a backslash waiting for you when (if) you make it back. So the Eye pumps more useless knowledge into his head than it does on any other day. Simply because he was gone, and it has a lot to say now.

What it doesn’t tell him is that Martin is still at his house. Jon only finds out once he is close enough to see the car still parked in front of his garden. A sizeable spider sits on the roof, tapping its legs impatiently.

“Hello Annabelle”, Jon says as soon as he is close enough for the spider to understand him. It turns around and gives him the most disapproving glare any spider ever gave him. It taps onto the roof a couple of times again, then jumps off and lands with a dull thump in the grass. Jon doesn’t follow it, he really doesn’t want to and is glad to find yet another note on Martin’s car roof. Today is full of notes.

_I’ll be back tomorrow. P.S.: I like him ::::)_

“Oh great.” Martin doesn’t need another entity taking an interest in him.

When Jon enters his garden, he finds it covered in cobwebs. All spiders left by now, just their webs are leftovers from their invasion. Martin, as the Eye tells him helpfully, is still there. He searched the house for Jon, then moved onto the back garden, to make sure he wasn’t trapped by a cocoon made of spiderwebs. He shivers at the thought. He’d much rather climb into the Buried than getting spun up by spiders. No thank you.

He's not yet at the porch when he hears Martin’s voice calling his name. The half of his brain that’s still somewhere trying to untwist itself from the Spiral’s influence hopes he didn’t try to dig out his plants, the other half has a clear enough grip on reality to remind him that usually people wear shoes over socks and if he wants to calm Martin down, he should really do that with at least his slippers on. Luckily, his garden shoes wait right outside.

Martin did not dig through his garden, he simply searched it and the small shed squeezed between the knee-high stone wall and the waist-high apple trees in the back. If the sound of metal being moved is anything to go by, he is still in there.

Back here, Jon can’t find any traces of spiders or their webs, so Annabelle had the decency to only clutter up his front garden and the living room. Small mercies, he reminds himself. She could have done far worse.

At the shed’s door, Jon stops. Martin stands with his back to him, currently occupied with the tall wooden closet in the back where Jon keeps most of the bigger gardening tools he doesn’t need every day.

“Jon?”, Martin knocks against the wood. “If you’re in there, knock twice!”

“Martin?”

Jon’s voice sets Martin spinning, gripping onto an old shovel next to him, holding it out like a sword. His hands shake, beads of sweat roll down his forehead. He looks… worried, to say the least. Then he spots Jon and recognises him just a breath later.

“Jon!”

The shovel falls to the ground with a loud clank and with it, Martin’s worry falls off his face. His shoulders sag, his breath hitches for a second. He takes one step, then he crosses the distance between them in one heartbeat and Jon gets pulled into a warm, but very insistent hug.

“Martin?” When he speaks, Martin’s hold on him tightens for a moment. Jon hugs him back, holds onto his jumper with both hands. “Are you alright?”

Martin chuckles, but it sounds so much closer to a chocked sob that Jon feels a sharp stab in his chest. He… he shouldn’t have been gone for so long. What did he think would happen? People actually care.

“I’m fine Jon. I’m fine.” He chuckles again, this time it’s closer to a laugh. Not close enough, but they’re getting there. “What about you? Where were you? What happened?”

Reluctantly, Martin lets go of him and Jon mourns the loss of contact as soon as he moves away. He’s still holding onto his shoulders with both hands. The position is a little awkward, Martin has to lean down quite a bit, but Jon is still tall enough for him not to crouch.

“You aren’t hurt, are you?” One of his hands lets go of his shoulder, it moves to his cheek, but doesn’t touch him, just hovers there for a moment, hesitant. But before Jon can lean into the promise of a touch, Martin pulls his hand away again.

“Don’t worry, Martin. I’m alright. There is nothing better than a long walk to help clear your head.” It’s… not really a lie. He walked through Helen’s corridors for quite a while, he also had a rather long walk back home from the field she dropped him in. So it’s not really a lie, he’s just leaving out some parts of the truth.

“There was… there was someone here.” Martin looks up behind Jon, checking for someone – Annabelle, no doubt – to come back and pester them. “A woman, she said you knew her? Jon, I don’t know if she’s still the person you… knew. She… Jon, she is one of them. One of the things we research. She’s like the Lonely. She’s dangerous!”

Jon puts his unburned hand on the hand Martin still has on his right shoulder. It has the beginning of his explanation peter out. Instead, he looks back down at him, his worry – it’s not quite panic, not anymore – still etched in every little line of his face.

“Yes, Martin, Annabelle is… something else. But I assure you she is not like the Lonely.”

“She… she never hurt you, did she?” His gaze flickers over his face, over the cuts on his throat, down to his burned hand.

“No, Annabelle never hurt me.” He smiles, a genuine smile conjured from old memories he barely ever visits these days. “She was… rather interested in someone else. I didn’t rank high enough for her intervening.”

Martin frowns. His nose scrunches up adorably, but his mouth is still pulled down from the weight of words he hasn’t spoken yet.

“I don’t like her”, he says.

“Yes, I assumed as much.” Jon takes a step back, his hand still on Martin’s even as it falls from his shoulder. “Now, let’s go back inside. I have a lot to clean, and you look like you could use a cup of tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: another uninvited guest, Jon’s opinion on British baking shows, and feelings


	15. How to open your parachute … a little too late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> feelings, Jon’s opinion on British baking shows, and another uninvited guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, you guys should thank every deity that watches over fanfiction for this chapter because no kidding my internet connection is so bad here. I just moved and the WiFi is the worst, I need to fix it somehow, so for now all I have is praying for the connection to stay stable long enough to publish a chapter

**Friday**

> **Harry Blackwood:** Have fun tonight Martin.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** You’re really missing out.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** [picture]  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** [picture]  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Grace says Hi.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** What was your friends’ name again? Maybe you can introduce us at one point.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Is your girlfriend with you? Grace asks for pictures of you two.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Have fun tonight!  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** its Dannys birthday  
>  **Martin Blackwood:** im going there with friends  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** I understand, a night out with the boys. Let loose a little.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** Have fun then.  
>  **Harry Blackwood:** 😊

Martin rereads the messages a couple of times. He doubts his father understands anything here, but Martin doesn’t feel like correcting him on everything he says will bode well for their relationship with each other. Then again, just assuming things has not worked out in his father’s favour just yet. Maybe he will be right one day with something. Maybe Martin is really missing out. The first picture his father sent is a shaky photo of an oven in which something cooks slowly to perfection. The second one shows him a podgy boy, not quite a child anymore, with a black and blue baseball cap on. He’s proudly presenting his plate with a piece of what looks like roasted beef and an assortment of different side dishes all around. Maybe Martin should have visited his father just for the sake of the food.

It’s not that Danny’s party mix is bad, absolutely not, everything here tastes amazing as far as he tried. But Martin isn’t twenty-one anymore, and just because Tim can jump all around while balancing his drink, a piece of pizza, and several kebabs in just one hand, doesn’t mean that Martin has the same juggling skills.

He sighs. His plastic cup is empty already, but he has yet to get up and fill it again. Everything just tastes different from plastic cups, somehow more intense than from mugs when he’s home. Or maybe it’s just the situations he’s in when he drinks from them. Who even knows?

The cabin Danny rented looks actually very cosy. It’s not like Jon’s cottage, not at all. For one, it has a second floor. Or rather, half of one. Stairs lead up to the open second floor, where Martin supposes the bed stands, but he has yet to venture further. The rest of the cabin is mostly just one room with an adjunct bathroom in the back. The couch Martin is sitting on stands right in the middle underneath the open second floor. It’s a truly massive thing with pillows everywhere, two corners, and arranged in a horse shoe form that opens up into the cabin. Everything is held in warm wooden brown, even the stone of the kitchen on the left-hand side mimics the pattern of a log. There’s music playing, but Martin can’t say for the life of his what song it is. The lights are not quite dimmed, but surely this place has more lights than those currently on.

Most of the people around him are busy chatting and Martin feels a little too awkward to randomly jump in on a conversation. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should have taken his father’s invitation.

“You look like someone spit in your drink”, Danny says leaning over the backrest of the couch. “And I don’t know if I’d rather that’s what got you so down. Because if it is, well, I can just get you a new drink. But if it’s not that means it’s my party.” He slides headfirst onto the seat to lie on it upside down.

Martin gives him a reassuring smile. “No, it’s really not your party, it’s… uhm, family matters.”

There are multiple other people on that couch, including Sasha, but she just went to get herself the last slice of the pineapple pizza Danny ordered. The few nearby make a little space for Danny to sit up again.

“Family matters”, Danny says in a disgusted tone that shows plainly what he thinks of “family matters”.

“It’s not the party if you think that.”

“Cheers then.” He’s not holding a cup, but gestures vaguely to the tables with various sorts of alcohol on them.

Danny and Tim are the kind of brothers who cannot deny each other. They don’t look the same, but there is a certain resemblance in Danny’s face that reminds Martin strongly of Tim. They are both outgoing and loud in the best ways, and very easy to talk to. Martin might have met Danny today for the first time, but he welcomed him like they were old friends. It’s a nice feeling, being included with no conditions whatsoever. He really does enjoy the birthday. But he’s still… shaken. From this week’s struggles.

After he left Jon on Monday (Let it be known that it was under protests. He did not like the thought of Jon being alone that night at all.) he read up on spider statements as both a preparation for their new filing system, but also just to be sure there is no lingering danger to be overlooked. The spook stories about webs and controlling and spiders did nothing to ease his mind.

“Sooo...”, Danny says next to him, drawing out the vowel. “You’re the lucky man.”

“The… I’m sorry?”

Danny pats his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m not telling anyone, but I’m also sure nobody else here knows you and those who do know about you anyway, right?”

“Right…”

Danny doesn’t look drunk. He doesn’t even sound that drunk, there’s no slurring, his words just make no sense to Martin. Or maybe he missed the most important clue here.

“Congrats then.” He grins. “Or maybe I should congratulate Jon for getting himself such a good-looking guy.”

“I- No- What- Jon?” Martin doesn’t know how to react, hasn’t even processed what Danny implies here, but his body reacts immediately with a deep crimson blush high on his cheeks and down his collar.

“Yep”, he pops the p and wiggles his eyebrows. “Tim told me, don’t sweat it. Congrats on tying the knot, sorry for not getting you a gift.”

“I’m, we’re not- it’s not like- No. No, no, no, no, no.” Martin shakes his head violently. “You… you have this all wrong. Jon is, we’re just friends, okay?”

Danny nods. “Of course.” He doesn’t sound like he believes Martin in the least.

“No, I... I mean it, we’re just friends?”

Again, Danny nods. “I get it. These things can be hard, especially in a small village like this, so as I said, don’t sweat it. You’re… just friends.” This time he puts more emphasis on the last words. It makes them sound like the most obvious lie in all history.

“I…” Martin fiddles with his cup. “I think I have to go find Tim for a second?”

Danny waves him off. “Suit yourself”, he calls after him, his grin wide. Unaware of Martin’s newly awakened plan to strangle Tim on sight.

What was he thinking? It was one thing to make jokes about any romantic interest Martin may or may not have for Jon (he doesn’t, of course, but that’s not the point) but another entirely to tell his brother and who knows who else that Martin had actually something resembling a relationship with Jon. What would people think? No, what would _Jon_ think if Danny was to congratulate him, too? He’d think Martin was telling lies about the nature of their friendship. Worse even, what if he thought it was what Martin actually wanted and just stopped talking to him all together to avoid any awkwardness?

Oh no. He was definitely going to kill Tim.

Sasha is the one he finds first. Waving his way through Danny’s friends all around the cabin, doesn’t help him find his target named Tim. And he doesn’t want to interrupt the conversations around him to ask for him. Sasha, on the other hand, is very easy to find. She’s still picking her way through the assortment of food Danny ordered.

“Ah, Martin, perfect timing”, she says when she spots him. “Do you want some of Tim’s pizza? He told me to look after his plate, but I’m not allowed to snack from it. He never said anything about you, so that’s fair game.”

Indeed, she holds a second plate in her hand with a couple of untouched kebabs. In contrary to Martin, who fussed over his clothes for an ungodly amount of time before he drove over, Sasha wears her dress in a very casual “I don’t really care” way that fits right in with everyone else.

“I… no thanks. I’m actually looking for Tim.”

Sasha shrugs. “He’s waiting to use the bathroom. What’s wrong? Are you leaving already?”

“No, that’s not it.” Martin scans the crowd in the cabin’s back, trying to pick out Tim’s bright red shirt.

“So?” Sasha’s hand is circling over Tim’s kebabs, clearly deciding on which one she’s going to steal. “What’s wrong? Did Tim steal your food?”

“He told Danny I’m dating Jon!”

Finally deciding on one, Sasha starts nibbling on the vegetables on it. “Are you not?”

“What? No! No, I’m not.” Martin takes a deep breath. He fiddles with the still empty cup in his hands. “We’re friends. I don’t want Jon to… uhm… think I might want anything else from him. Because I don’t.”

“Huh.” Sasha shrugs. “Could have fooled me. Jon shows more interest in you than he does in anybody else.”

“No we- wait what?” He keeps his voice levelled – as much as he can, he still has to raise it over the music playing in the background. Some indie band he doesn’t know.

But Sasha doesn’t answer, she just nods to someone in a bright red shirt approaching them. “Tim, there you are!”

A muscular arm snakes its way around Martin’s shoulders and before he can turn, Tim claps him on the upper arm.

“Martin, I see you helped Sasha’s noble quest to steal my food.”

Sasha, with her mouth full of said food, rolls her eyes.

“No, I, not really. Tim.” Martin shrugs his arm off. “Tim, why are you telling everyone I’m dating Jon? That’s, it’s not like that.”

Tim frowns and Martin has to admit even with his puppy eyes his frown scrunches up his face in a less flattering way than Jon’s does. Or maybe he’s just far more used to it.

“It’s not? You’re really not a thing?” Martin is close to believing him he actually is surprised, but he remembers very clearly to shoot their accusations down just last week.

“I told you we’re absolutely nothing”, Martin says, Sasha’s words still somewhere in the back of his mind. “And even, even if Jon spends a lot of time with me that doesn’t prove anything. There are other people who have an interest in him.”

“Like Tim.” Sasha points to him with the stolen kebab.

Tim pats Martin’s shoulder for a second, then pulls his arm back. “No, no, no, don’t worry, I would never try to hit on someone who’s taken. I’m outgoing, yes, I admit to that, but I’m not an asshole. Besides, I did my best to establish myself as a friend and it worked out perfectly fine, didn’t it?”

“Or Elias”, Martin hears himself say with a hint of bitterness. It’s what the spider-lady – Annabelle – said, isn’t it? About Elias being interested in Jon, one or another way, Martin doesn’t know. He worries, but at the end of the day that’s all he can do; worry.

Sasha and Tim stop for a second. Tim frowns again, Sasha puts his food back on his plate.

“Elias?”, she asks. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, really, I just…” He chews on his lip. Both Sasha, and Tim are researchers in the centre just like him. They both take their work seriously and have a ton of experience with the supernatural. Years more than Martin has (including his time at the magazine). They are both capable of correctly identifying and successfully following up on spooky stories. And Martin really doesn’t want them to. Not now, not with this.

“I met one of Jon’s friends, on accident, really, they were just over at his when I decided to drop by. And, uhm, yeah, just met them, we talked, they said they’re… worried.” He fiddles with his cup. “About Elias taking an interest in Jon?”

Sasha and Tim exchange meaningful glances Martin can’t read. For a moment he’s afraid they noticed he lied to them, but before he can shift to a full panic, Sasha clears her throat.

“That would… actually make an awful lot of sense.”

Martin’s heart misses one beat. “S-so that happens sometimes?”

Tim nods. He reaches for his plate again and Sasha gives it up, but not without stealing her kebab back. “We usually find out Elias popped up because the first one he annoys is Jon. And he tries his best to get rid of him, but it, well, isn’t working out. At all.”

“I see.”

“Maybe you should ask Jon about it instead of us”, Sasha nods towards a slim figure weaving its way through the mass of dancing bodies and those few who just stand or sit around.

Martin turns, but he doesn’t recognise Jon at first. He’s wearing only part of his teacher attire – a neat button down that fits him nicely – and one of the more comfortable skirts he wears at home. Tim has his arm raised already to greet him, but Jon doesn’t turn into their direction. He’s trailing behind someone just out of sight. Martin just so sees a second figure slip out the front door and holding it open for Jon to follow, who does so quickly.

“And there he goes”, Martin says for a lack of better words.

“Seems you really were onto something”, Tim says before stuffing his mouth with the last piece of pizza on his plate.

“What do you mean?”

He nods to the door. “That was Elias he left with.”

“What?” Sasha turns again, but of course, Jon and whoever else he was with are already out of sight. “No. How would you know?”

Tim snorts. “I’d recognise that stuck up fashion sense anywhere. He looks like he stole it from some 18th century guy.”

Martin thrusts his cup forward into Sasha’s empty hands. “I think I should say hello if nothing else.”

Tim wiggles his eyebrows. “Martin, out here fighting for your man, I’m impre-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” And Martin throws himself into the pool of people standing around and dancing to music he doesn’t particularly like.

Jon didn’t look like he was being forced to follow, but if the time Martin spent with him has any benefit at all then it is to tell his “I’m annoyed” and “I’m worried” frown apart. And that one was clearly the latter. Most things that worry Jon have Martin worry as well, unless it’s about fertiliser or how picky his hydrangeas are.

It takes Martin surprisingly long to find his way to the door. The people around him seem to have come to the conclusion that always standing in Martin’s path is the perfect way to spend their evening. When he finally makes it to the door and slips through, Jon and maybe Elias, if it really was him, are nowhere to be seen.

The night is chilly, not quite cold enough for a jacket, but also too cold for just a t-shirt. The lights from the cabin’s windows break through the darkness around him. There’s not much else around. A few cars are parked on the muddy trail that leads here from the cobbled street, none of which have any lights on inside. A couple of people stand outside just to smoke, their cigarettes mocking the stars above, shining brightly, untouched by any light pollution that might drown them out.

Martin has the mind of a poet, but right now he’s far too focussed on trying to find Jon to compose poems about the sky and light. So instead he goes on and searches for a pair of shadows that are not party guests vomiting or making out. The further he stumbles away from the cabin, the darker it gets. A thin layer of fog obscures the ground, drifts with him further out until he can barely see the lights and none of the cigarettes anymore. One step further and the music will drown in the darkness and nothing else will be left except for him and the fog, curling around his feet.

“It’s the Lonely”, he says out loud, if just to hear his own voice again, just to convince himself that sounds are a real thing and not some imagined nothings his mind made up. The fog to his feet doesn’t like him identifying it. It takes Martin a moment, a second between heartbeats, to find the last remaining light of the cabin in his back. The Lonely doesn’t reach for him, it lets him wander away from it, uninterested for the moment. He is, obviously, not the prey it hunts right now.

With the Lonely still searching for an easier target, Martin keeps closer to the cabin’s lights. Jon saved him from this thing once, now he doesn’t want him falling into its claim either.

Closer to the cabin, he finds more people, too. Some smoking their own rollups that are definitely not filled with tobacco, some just breathing a little fresh air after the stale breaths you have to take inside. None of the people pay attention to him, none of them he recognises. The Lonely is still there, far off, at the edges of his mind, whispering the cruellest of truths. How lonely he is even with humans around him. How little they think of him after just a quick glance.

Martin shoves those thoughts right to the back of his mind. Maybe the Lonely is right, maybe not. But after everything, the Lonely is a very selfish and self-centred fear, something Martin cannot succumb to if he focusses on someone else. Actively searching someone out, caring for them and their wellbeing, those thoughts drive the Fog away. It lingers but can’t stick.

He nearly rounds the cabin. Just as he finds himself at the very back where he supposes the wall separates him from the luxurious bathroom, he stops. Neither Jon nor Elias are anywhere to be seen. The Fog floods the ground still, it curls all around the cabin, shutting it off from the world, but it stops right in front of the first trees, about ten metres from the cabin. Most of the cabins are privately owned by many people from the village, some belong to a bigger company. The only thing separating them are a thin layer of a couple of trees and bushes. The cabins are advertised as being “all among green” and “conveying a feeling of wilderness but with comfort” even though the real forest begins further east and in reality what’s between the cabins can be crossed in about five minutes if you walk slowly. So it’s not hard for Martin to see the two figures standing among the trees, even in the dark. One of them is significantly smaller than the other, and very clearly wearing the same long skirt Jon did.

Martin has never been great at sneaking. So he doesn’t try to at all, he’s not stomping or announcing himself, but if any of the figures were to turn his way they would immediately notice him. They don’t, though. And Martin steps closer and closer, until he’s at the very edge of the trees where the Fog ends, too.

“I just have both our best interests in mind”, says a voice that shoots a shiver down Martin’s spine. Tim was right. It’s Elias. He’s standing in front of Jon, both his hands resting on the top of his decorative cane. Jon has his arms crossed, leaning away from Elias visibly.

“Our best interests?”, Jon says. “You mean _your_ best interests.”

Elias chuckles. It sounds wrong, too old for his body, like his throat fights against producing it. “But are _your_ interests and _my_ interests really that different?”

Jon snorts. “I would hope so.”

Martin sees the movement before he hears it. Elias tips the dirt path with his cane, he clicks his tongue the way adults do with misbehaving children.

“Jon, we are the same, if not in mind at least of the same kin in the face of”

“No.”

He stabs a plant at his feet with the tip of his cane. “You cannot just walk away from your fate.”

“I certainly tried. I moved as far away from the Library as I possibly could.”

“You did. You did.” His voice falls at the end. His words are more than what Martin hears, they fall dangerously close to a threat.

“Doesn’t that tell you enough of what I think about your _plan._ ” Jon makes quotation marks with both hands. “Or do you need a reminder?”

The silence after Jon’s words is heavy, dangerous even, Martin finds himself waiting for something to happen. There is more to this moment than just two humans arguing about something he doesn’t understand.

“Jon. You are important for this village, you are connected to it after all the stories you heard, after all the time you spend here. And our special connection to the places we live at makes it hard to separate us from them. So if I were to… have something planned for this village, I would appreciate your help.”

“Oh really?” Jon’s voice cuts through the night. It’s harsh and unforgiving, and even Martin – he isn’t even talking to – has the feeling of being seen in the most peculiar way. Not seen through, but seen too much, a lab rat examined by too many eyes all at once.

“You would _appreciate_ my help? The same way you appreciated Colin’s and Keara’s help in creating the worst disaster the Library has ever seen? The same way you appreciated your then-Archivist dying? Because all your appreciation ever does is hurt people and get them killed.”

“Jon, I’m giving you two options now.” Elias’ voice rises to meet Jon’s in intensity. It’s strong, far more forceful than it needs to be, however there’s a wrongness to it. Like a limb twisted out of place by a force outside of his body. Something twisted his voice, something broke up the essence of what Elias once was and replaced it, took over whatever it wished until nothing more was left but the thing now standing here.

“You either cooperate”, Elias says, his voice a whisper, a promise of unseen horrors, “or I will find some other means to bring you back under my control.”

“Yes, well, good luck with that then. I’m leaving.”

Jon moves to turn away from Elias, but the second he tries to, Elias’ hand shoots forwards, off of his cane, and grabs Jon’s upper arm, holding him in place.

“Let go!”, Jon says, but he’s far weaker than Elias. When he tries to free himself from him, Elias just tightens his grip and pulls him closer.

_I don’t fucking think so!_

“Hey!”, Martin shouts louder than necessary. He crosses the last few metres between them. “What are you doing there? He told you to let go!”

Besides Jon, Martin stands up straight, pulling at every little millimetre he has to offer to look bigger and meaner than he feels. Jon looks up at him, his eyes wide and full of surprise, but he doesn’t move away, rather leans closer towards Martin without actively moving.

Elias lets go of his arm. “Of course”, he says before tapping his cane again. “You will be hearing from me, Jon.”

“I’m afraid I will.”

One last time, Elias looks up at Martin. With his eyes comes a pressure, his staring is too heavy, intrusive even. But Martin doesn’t budge. You don’t survive a childhood like his without learning how to lie your way to safety, and how to hide any pain or discomfort under a blanket of silence. So Martin doesn’t move. It’s an uncomfortable feeling he wants to surrender to, to kneel down and have this burning gaze fall off of him, but he doesn’t. Because if he did, he’d leave Jon all on his own with this… creep.

Then, Elias turns and leaves them. He taps his cane, mumbling something to himself. The fog, when he leaves the trees, parts for him, lets him pass through unconcerned. With him out of the way, Martin turns his attention to Jon, who stands there now looking up at him with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open.

“I”, he says when their eyes meet, “thank you.”

“Are you okay?” Martin just so keeps himself from grabbing him and looking him over just to be sure Elias didn’t hurt him.

“I am now.” And Jon smiles at him, a smile that reaches his eyes and has Martin’s cheeks burning red.

“G-good, yes, I’m glad. I was worried, you know?”

“I didn’t, now I do. Thank you, Martin, I mean it.”

There it is again. The way Jon says his name, the way his voice wraps around a name too ordinary for a sound so rich. Like it means something to him. Like _he_ means something to him.

Martin clears his throat, just to be sure his voice comes out just right, not breathless or anything. Just to be sure.

“We should head back inside, it’s… I mean there’s fog again.”

As he says it, Martin notices that there is no fog at all. Nowhere to be seen. Jon, however, doesn’t comment on it. He just nods.

“I suppose you are right. But it’s late already, I think I’ll be going home then. If you would be so kind as to tell Danny I had to leave early?”

“What? No.” Martin shoots a quick look over his shoulder, but Elias is gone completely and if he’s still nearby, Martin can’t see him. “Jon, you can’t just walk home now in the middle of the night, that’s… it’s dangerous!”

Jon frowns, he bites his lower lip for a second, chewing on an answer he’s not sure he wants to give.

“You don’t have to stay”, Martin says quickly, “I can, just – I can drive you home.”

Jon blinks. “You… Martin, I… thank you, just, I… I wouldn’t want to impose”

“You don’t, no, really Jon, it’s no bother at all. I would feel so much better if I knew you were home safely.”

“But I…” Jon gives his best resigned sigh. “I… don’t have any idea how to talk you out of this.”

“Point for Martin”, Martin says, then gestures for Jon to follow him first towards the cabin, then further away to where he parked his car.

“Did you bring a jacket?”, he asks just as he unlocks his car. Jon is hugging himself tightly but shakes his head. Before Martin can say anything else, he gets onto his seat and closes the door again. It is only in this moment, with Jon already in the car and Martin standing there, his keys still in his hand, when he realises what kind of a sight this probably gives. And what kind of gossip it can stir up! Martin going home with Jon after Danny’s party? Scandalous! And news travel so much faster in small villages.

 _It doesn’t matter,_ he tells himself as he gets into his car as well, banishing all of those thoughts far away. _It doesn’t matter what people think, they will see the truth at the end. Maybe there will be gossip, but it will eventually stop. Especially if I stop giving them things to gossip about._

Which will not be hard at all. In the end, they are just friends, so he just has to behave like any other friend would.

“Do you want to listen to music?”, Martin asks, ready to leave any music choices to Jon entirely. He doesn’t really listen to music while driving, maybe some nice audio books, but those hold too much of his attention to drive safely.

“Hm”, Jon says. He fiddles with the buttons on the car radio while Martin keeps his eyes on the road and far away from Jon’s frowning face. He switches through a couple of stations, two of which are nothing more than half cut off words and white noise.

“Anything good?”, Martin asks as he takes a turn.

“Everything is better than what I usually have to sit through when in a car”, Jon mumbles, but doesn’t let go of the buttons and switches.

“Which would be?” Martin only partly focusses on his words.

“The Archers”, Jon says. He shivers. “I hate them.”

“Then why do you listen to them?” Martin doesn’t really know who the Archers are, but if Jon doesn’t like them, he won’t check out their music.

“Daisy likes it. I… don’t.”

“You could tell her?”

“She knows.”

This time, Martin risks a look over to Jon. He stopped fiddling with the controls and just sits there. With his head propped up on one hand, he looks out of the window, watching the world pass them. There are shadows on his face, but Martin can still make out his features even with barely any light to illuminate them. He doesn’t need it, anyway. Even like this, staring out into dark nothingness, with the stars above them, Jon looks… good. Softer, than he does in the stark daylight. More tired, too. The darkness catches on his face, deepens all his features like the lines on a tree bark. Carved by time and stubborn growing. He’s solid, he’s there, he’s safe here.

“I don’t mind it”, Jon says. His voice is just as soft as his face. There’s something to it, something enthralling that has Martin listen up. “It’s not half bad.”

“What is it like?”, Martin asks. He has his eyes on the road again and regrets it immediately when he hears Jon chuckle. He wants to see it, the smile curling around the edges of his lips, the way his eyes gleam with barely disguised glee every time he can explain something, be it an easy recipe for chocolate cake or the new lesson plan he made.

“It’s… so it’s an audio drama…”

And Jon lapses into an extensive explanation of both story and characters, about their definition, their motivation, the role they play. His own opinion is intercepted between what Martin believes is the plot. And if he hadn’t known Jon didn’t like it, he could have sworn he almost sounded fond. However, the way he describes Daisy’s “truly atrocious” decision to introduce him to this “monstrosity of boredom” has Martin smile. Maybe it’s just Daisy he’s fond of. She and her own reactions to certain parts take up just as much as Jon’s own opinion does. Still, his explanations remain on point and as neutral as possible. But his point stands, he hates it.

Jon’s re-telling of the story and his and Daisy’s commentaries takes the entire drive, but Martin doesn’t mind. How could he? Jon’s voice has become one of his favourite sounds over the few months they’ve known each other. Tim and Sasha are amazing, they really are. The knitting group he joined permanently by now (on accident, he just kept getting invited over and over again) occupies his Saturdays and entertains him with new gossip he can in turn entertain Tim and Sasha with. But Jon’s voice has something warm and soft to it. It sounds of freshly baked cake and shy smiles, unwilling to show for longer than a second. Jon’s voice has a presence that has nothing supernatural to it. It’s _there_ , strong and soft and _beautiful_ , and tethers Martin to the moment as well.

So when Jon apologises profoundly for taking up all the talking time, Martin just smiles.

“Don’t worry about it”, he says as Jon undoes his seatbelt.

“Really, Martin” – and there it is again, his name, said like it means something, like _he_ means something – “you could have just interrupted.”

“I didn’t want to be rude. Besides, it sounded very interesting.”

“Of course it did”, Jon mumbles under his breath. He keeps the eyeroll to himself, but Martin still hears it in his voice.

They sit in silence for a moment, neither of them moving, neither of them sure what to say next and how to dissolve this moment the least awkward. Jon is chewing his lower lip and Martin has the urge to tell him to stop, to tell him it’s not good for his skin, but he doubts Jon would listen. So he says nothing.

“Do you…” Jon clears his throat. “Do you want to come inside. For a tea?”

“I…”, Martin says. He looks at the cottage with its dark windows and no life to fill it just yet, then he looks back at Jon.

“Yes”, he says. “I would love to.”

Jon’s small, private smile makes his decision all the more worth it. It’s gone when they get out of the car and Martin locks it, but Jon throws a look back at him when he unlocks his front door, just to make sure Martin is still there, just to make sure. How nice to have someone actively look for you. How nice to be wanted at a place so kind.

The living room and kitchen are free of any leftover spiderwebs. Nothing reminds of a dangerous intruder hanging up webs like decorations and Martin is glad for the familiarity that greets him. Jon, after putting on his house slippers, immediately goes for the kitchen.

“You can sit down if you’d like”, he calls over his shoulder.

But Martin doesn’t, instead he follows him to the kitchen to make himself useful. And Jon, as Jon apparently just does, accepts his help with no complaints. Instead, he just hands two mugs to Martin – one is his cat mug, one is dark blue with many, many stars in bright yellow – and Martin, as he does, carries them over to the couch and sets them down on the table. It takes very little time for them to finally sink down onto the couch, a respectable distance between them, with two steaming mugs in their hands.

Jon is the first one to speak up.

“Thank you, again.” He turns and turns and turns the mug in his hands. “For your help. And for driving me.”

“It’s okay. You would have done the same.”

Jon smiles again. His soft, private smile that has Martin take a step back from his mind just to realise it is real and not something straight from a fairy tale.

“Except I don’t have a car and cannot drive.”

“But that’s not the important part now, is it?”

Jon hums into his tea cup. “I suppose it isn’t.”

There is… something. Something left unsaid that clogs up the air, something that makes Martin hyperaware of every breath they both take. Maybe it’s just him, just something Martin imagines because Jon doesn’t say anything else and just sips his tea, his smile long gone, but a last shadow still visible in the corners of his lips. Maybe he imagines it. Maybe this is a perfectly fine silence.

“I’m sorry”, Jon says after what was a little too long for a comfortable silence, but still not long enough to turn awkward on them. “I’m a terrible host, again. Do you want something to eat? Or would you rather go back to Danny’s party?”

“No! No, no, no, Jon, it’s good, it’s all, all good.”

Jon frowns. “Are you certain? Because I assure you I would never hold it against you if”

“Yes Jon, I’m certain.” Martin laughs, once, very quickly, but it carries a deep relief. “I only went to the party to have an excuse. I didn’t want to spend the evening with my dad’s family.”

“Is he still bothering you?”

“Oh I wouldn’t call it bothering.” He shrugs. “He wants to reconnect, I… still don’t really know if I do, but that’s all there is to it. Nothing big.”

Jon wants to disagree – Martin can see it on the tip of his nose – but he doesn’t. And really, Martin doesn’t know if he’s glad about it or not. He doesn’t know what he should do about his father himself, so how can he tell Jon it’s okay?

“I’m sorry, Martin, I shouldn’t have-“

“It’s okay, I brought it up on my own. It’s just complicated at the moment, I... I don’t think I want to meet him again so soon. Maybe after a while, when I figure out how to deal with him, but not yet.”

“That’s alright”, Jon says, and Martin believes him instantly. It’s not the words, it’s never the words, but the way he says it. Jon doesn’t lie to him, his words are true even if only because it’s Jon who says it. If Jonathan Sims told him the sky was actually green, Martin would believe him. Even if it was just to hear him talk about the colour green or the sky.

“It’s getting late”, Jon says, his cup now empty in his hands.

“Right.” He is… not disappointed. He isn’t. Martin knows it’s getting on, he knows Jon gets up early to care for his plants, but he is… _not_ disappointed. This is Jon’s home and he can ask him to leave at any moment and it would be perfectly justified.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

Martin looks up when Jon gets off of the couch to find some space in his kitchen for two used mugs. He cannot agree, Jon should have a good night’s sleep without him around here. You always sleep a little weirder with other people in your space, Martin knows that for a fact. But Jon looks at him from over his shoulder, with just the barest hint of his braid still holding, and Martin nods.

“I would love to.”

Which is, of course, not what he wanted to say at all. It’s safer like this, some part of him says just to make himself feel better about how easily he gives in to a pretty face.

“If you’re staying”, Jon calls from the kitchen, “would you like another tea? Or maybe coffee? Whichever you prefer.”

“Tea”, Martin calls back. “Always tea.” Even though Jon isn’t around to see it, he nods towards the small TV Jon managed to wrangle between an armchair (which is not the one he likes to sit in, this one actually matches the colour of his couch) and the wall. It’s not the smartest place for a TV, but Martin can’t think of any other arrangement that would both compliment the living room like this, and still have the TV easily accessible.

“Do you, uhm, want to watch a movie?” As soon as he says it, the question sounds incredible childish. Like a teenager trying to ask out his first crush. Martin’s cheeks burn, it’s just his luck that Jon doesn’t turn around, still occupied with the tea.

“If you find something good at… a Friday evening at 11:27?”

Martin makes a noise that was supposed to sound like an affirmative hum but comes out like a shaky half-laugh he couldn’t quite hold back.

“There’s uhm you know there’s”, he calls before he even finds the remote to turn the TV on. “An, a, oh there’s an old episode of the Great British Bake Off if you’re interested?”

As it turns out, Jon is not, but they end up watching it anyway because the only other options are the News, some true crime shows about people who thought they were smart and murdered their wives, some random police drama (Martin can’t say which show it is, they are all too similar to find any noticeable differences in them anymore), and movies already more than halfway done. So they end up watching an old episode of the Great British Bake Off where a bunch of people try to bake pies and tarts. And Martin is subjected to a continuous stream of Jon’s commentary.

“My grandma had her own pie recipe. It’s really easy, it wouldn’t win any awards for creativity, but it tastes very good.”

“This will not work, I promise you that’s not how pies work.”

“If they keep checking their ovens they will just release all heat that’s supposed to stay inside the oven to cook those things.”

“That is not how tarts work.”

“I can promise you one thing: This’ll be burned.”

“Oh surprise it burned!”

“This is not baklava, this is a huge mistake.”

“Maybe you should bake there”, Martin says after a while, a huge smile threatening to overtake his voice. He tries to keep it as serious as he can, but it’s rather hard with Jon curled up into himself right next to him and his running commentary, that only sometimes would actually be helpful to the contestants.

Jon just snorts. “I’m not a show baker, I enjoy my own little world around here. It’s easier that way. Besides, if I was in any way famous for baking you would never get to eat my chocolate cake anymore without paying for it.” His voice, too, has taken on a teasing edge, but he also sounds very tired, positively exhausted.

“We can’t have that”, Martin mumbles. “But it was a long day, maybe we should talk tomorrow?”

Jon stifles a yawn. “It’s okay, I’m not tired.”

“Obviously.”

“Let’s just finish this, how much longer can it be?”

♣

As always when he stays the night over, Martin is woken up by sunlight hitting his face and worming its way underneath his eyelids. It’s not as if he stays over regularly, but it happened twice, and in his own flat, Martin usually closes the curtains tight enough to make sure no light can wake him until he absolutely has to get up. Besides, when he’s at Jon’s cottage (no matter if overnight or just for lunch) he always has the best poetry ideas.

Speaking of poetry, Martin should really re-write some of his poems. Dark country roads and old, dying trees in his truly mediocre poetry should not be his legacy. There are more, deeper metaphors out there, just waiting for him to discover.

 _Something, something, about warm blankets,_ he thinks, breathing in the smell of fresh soil and cut herbs. _A warm place to sleep, soft and sheltered from the world. Blankets and pillows and streaks of sunlight and warm hands and an almost-there looped smile that stretches into a frown when Jon concentrates._ Martin smiles to himself.

Jon has little dimples Martin has only seen once, but he would like to see them again because he looks _really_ good smiling, especially when Martin was the one who made him smile in the first place. That’s not even a metaphor, he should just write a poem about Jon’s smile in general. He needs layers of layers of similes and the most genius tricks in his repertoire to describe Jon’s smile. And even then, he knows he could never do it justice.

Wait.

Wait, what?

Martin frowns. He’s not completely awake yet, just somewhere between dreams and reality where everything is possible and everything is true. Martin still remembers last night, the party, Elias, watching TV next to Jon on his couch and then… well, things are a bit hazy there. He doesn’t quite remember when exactly he went to bed or what happened to the tarts the bakers were making.

Slowly, very much unwilling to let himself slip further into the waking world, Martin opens one eye. He’s still in Jon’s living room. The TV is still on, but there’s nothing really to see, just an advertisement for a vacuum. His back hurts like hell, this couch was definitely not designed to sleep on, he doesn’t know why Tim would willingly sleep here. He lifts one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but his movement has something else stir in his arm. Someone, actually.

Jon is clearly more asleep than awake. He blinks bleary eyed up at Martin, his face so much softer, completely unguarded like this. His head rests on Martin’s arm, his hair falling into his face and he just looks up at him.

“Hi”, Martin whispers. His face is bright red, his voice only wavers so much.

Jon makes a noise that might be a greeting, but it’s probably not. His eyes fall shut again and he turns his head to shield his eyes from the sun. Martin bites his lip to keep his smile down, to keep his flush under control. But he just can’t. Jon looks cute like this, all sleep-rumpled and soft under his eyes. He should stop staring, this is rude and surely, Jon wouldn’t approve.

A few hairs from one of Jon’s many grey streaks slide down gently onto his face and before he can think any better of it, Martin raises his hand to brush them away. It’s the faintest of touches, but Jon turns his face towards Martin’s hand anyway.

This time, Martin doesn’t try to conceal his smile. He wants to cup Jon’s face, just to hold him, to feel the smooth and rough patches of his skin in his palm. He doesn’t. Even he knows that’s one step too far. He can start writing poetry about him, about this, about them.

Martin moves, just a little, just to relieve some of the tension in his back, but Jon opens his eyes a tiny bit and _pouts_ before he turns again.

 _Well that settles it,_ he thinks, smiling down at the armful of Jon he holds, _if I wasn’t in love with you before, I am now._

He smiles. Then blinks multiple times as his smile freezes on his lips.

_Jon? In love? But I’m… not…_

Except he is, isn’t he? All he can do is think of Jon drinking his nightmare of sprinkles and cream in a café for newlyweds because he thought it would lift Martin’s mood after a Lonely statement. Jon, moving around in his kitchen, making breakfast for both of them after he listened to Martin’s concerns and fears the night before. All he can think of is his poetry. The way he thought about finding a love to last forever after spending the night at Jon’s. The way his heart jumps when he hears Jon’s laugh and sees his smile, like a flash of lightning, short-lived, illuminating his entire heart for just a second. The way he falls deeper and deeper every time Jon says his name. Because it sounds like it means something. Because it sounds like he’s something worth calling.

_Because I love him._

Martin stares at him. Stares down at Jon, still sleeping soundly in his arms, like he belongs there, like he fits right there. A space the world carved out for him, not a flat or a village, but a person and their heart.

_Maybe I should tell him._

But he doesn’t. He lets him sleep until he starts squirming and Martin can pull his arm free. He doesn’t tell him when he gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn’t tell him when Jon, finally awake, knocks at the bathroom door to ask if he is alright. He doesn’t tell him during breakfast, and he most certainly doesn’t tell him when they say their goodbyes and Jon offers he can stay longer. Martin doesn’t tell him he loves him. Because why should he? There is no way someone like Jon would ever love someone like Martin. That might happen in fairy tales, but Jon is not a witch and Martin doesn’t need saving, this is real life, and reality rarely has a happy ending. At least not for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My recherche for this chapter includes: watching the great British bake off for the first time in my life.
> 
> Next up: Jon tries not to assume things, Martin is very gay, and Tim and Sasha are more interested in Martin’s love life than their work


	16. How to deny your crush … “convincingly”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Sasha are more interested in Martin’s love life than their work, Martin is very gay, and Jon tries not to assume things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read your comments like you guys read this fic, still can’t believe people actually like this, I love you guys!
> 
> Here you have a short, but sweet chapter before things will happen - a lot of things, actually =D

The problem of having a crush, falling in love, or generally just showing interest in a friend is that your mutual friends will inevitably figure out your feelings before the other person does. Martin’s very specific problem is that said friends are very capable and mostly dedicated researchers with a lot of experience and tricks up their sleeves.

Besides, they are his co-workers, so it would be rather hard to avoid them.

It’s not that Martin would actively try to hide his feelings for Jon (not that he could, really, this weekend he wrote three poems about love and belonging and the softness of Jon’s voice in general, and managed to stare off into the distance for long enough to burn his microwave dinner), it’s just that he spent the last few months telling both Sasha, and Tim how he is definitely not falling for Jon, and only now realised that – oh, there’s no parachute in the world that could save him now.

More so, both Sasha and Tim are incredibly perceptive. Martin has no chance of hiding under their scrutinizing gaze. So when he comes to work this Monday, he makes an effort to show just how normal and everyday everything is. Which does not work the slightest.

With a smile, Martin comes in, sets down his stuff, greets everyone, then starts working on his statements. There’s no way he behaves any different from how he did the last few weeks. No difference at all.

“So”, Tim says from across is desk, “did you enjoy Danny’s party?”

“Yes”, Martin nods, his eyes still on his computer screen to try and make sense of the e-mail he got from the translation department, even though he’s not reading any word.

“That’s good, that’s good. Mhm. You know, he’s staying a little longer. Rented the cabin for a while to go hiking with a few friends.”

“Oh I love that.” Martin is very, very concentrated on this mail, yes.

“Weirdest thing, though. One of his friends said they saw you leaving the party.” Tim makes a dramatic pause. “With Jon.”

“What? I, that”, Martin forces himself to chuckle, he’s still staring very intently at his computer screen, which is the most normal thing, yes, stop asking, Tim. “I- I haven’t, I actually haven’t talked to Jon all Sunday, I don’t know what you mean?”

Tim’s grin widens. “Oh really, how nice. But Danny’s party was Friday, so… I mean…?”

“Yes, no, I…” Martin clears his throat. Finally, he looks away from his screen and sees both, Sasha and Tim, watch him with the biggest grins. Only Sarah spares him his embarrassment and smiles into her statements instead of grinning at him like a maniac.

“Look, Jon was, I brought him home after the party. I was just worried, okay? I saw him argue with Elias and he- he tried to grab him! I was worried!”

“Okay, but that’s totally fair Tim”, Sasha says.

“Yes, alright, it is”, Tim nods, “that’s serious, I get it. But Martin? Swooping in for Jon’s rescue? Please, Sash! That’s perfect! A prince in shining armour just in time, everyone would be swept off of their feet by that.”

“Well, Jon was not. Can I now go back to work?”

“To be fair”, Sasha says, which clearly means “No”, “I was under the impression you two were already dating.”

“We are most certainly not.”

“Shame”, Tim wiggles his eyebrows, “I think he likes you.”

All Martin does, all he can do, really, is bury his head in his hands. “Please stop.”

Of course, they don’t.

“Martin, my friend, my favourite library buddy, Marto, boy of the year, you should listen to your best friend here.” Tim pats his own shoulder. “You just have to ask Jon out, then stare lovingly at him, just like you usually do – no, not like that, you’re staring daggers right now.”

“Oh am I?” Martin turns to his computer screen again. “Wonder why.”

“What Tim is trying to say here is just that you can’t know if Jon likes you back if you don’t ask him.”

“And I won’t ask him, because there’s nothing to ask. At all.” Perfect, if he’s just stubborn enough, they might drop the subject.

“Okay, but”, Tim plays with his pen, “what if – I mean, hypothetically, of course, but what if Jon asked us”, he points to Sasha and himself with said pen, “to maybe keep an eye out if you”, he points to Martin, “show any kind of interest in him. At all. What if he did that?”

Martin hesitates. This… does not sound like something Jon might do. He wouldn’t just ask Tim and Sasha any of that. Or would he? They have been friends for longer than Martin knows him. So is it really that unlikely for him to ask after Martin’s… opinion on him? It doesn’t even have to be in a romantic sense. And really, Martin wouldn’t even want that, would he? Having Jon acting all lovely with him, even though he already is very lovely. In all the ways he’s always so considerate with him, always asks if he wants to help, if he could please set the table, if he decided on which mug he would like to use. How could Martin _not_ want him to look at him and smile simply because it’s him?

“I…”, he says carefully, “I guess if he asked me… not out necessarily, unless he, it’s not like I’m waiting for him to take the, to make the first step. Not as if there is any step to take, it’s just, I…” Martin sighs.

“If you’re waiting for a sign or something, here it is”, Tim says and holds up the back of one of his fake statements, where he hurriedly wrote “HE LIKES YOU!” while Martin was speaking.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”

“Okay, but seriously”, Sasha gestures for Tim to put his sign down, “You should just talk to him, like the two adults you are.”

“Of course, I’ll talk to him, I have to see him again on Wednesday.” He doesn’t have to, actually, but Jon expects him to show up. And not coming over just because he realised he might be in love with him, is worse than Jon finding out about his feelings. Or equally as bad. And if he can spend some more time with Jon, hear him say his name like _that_ again, it’s worth all secrets he ever kept. Warmth feels its way up his face until his blush burns bright and obvious, broadcasting his fantasies of happiness and a smile to everyone in the room.

Even Sarah looks up. “Maybe you can start slowly? Bring him some flowers?”

“Yes!” Tim snaps his fingers. “Perfect! Woo him with your amazing charm and thoughtful gestures. Trust us, that’ll work like nothing else.”

“More like nothing”, Martin gives back, “because I will not, under any circumstances, get Jon flowers.”

♣

The flowers, Martin bought for Jon, are red and orange. He took the time to make sure the small bouquet he bought has no roses in it, just to be sure. Buying him red roses seemed a little too forward, so he decided on a small bouquet of different kinds of flowers he can’t name. Back in the flower shop, his decision seemed reasonable. But now…

He’s standing in front of Jon’s door, already knocked twice, but it’s still shut. No village witch to be found in this cottage. It is, as Martin found out, because he miscalculated the time he needed to get from work to the flower shop, and then to Jon’s. Which means, Jon isn’t home yet. He walks home from school every day, so it takes him longer than it takes Martin to get here.

“I should have just picked him up from school”, he tells the flowers, both in his hand and all around him on the porch.

What a picture he must be. Sitting on Jon’s front porch, with a bouquet of slowly dying flowers in his hand, waiting for Jon to come home from work. If he had the key to the front door, he could maybe start on their food already. And greet Jon when he comes home, tell him “welcome home”, ask him how his day was, listen to him talk about the children and the other teachers, just to tell him lunch is nearly ready. And with Jon’s constant habit to sit on top of counters and his kitchen island, it isn’t all that hard to lean closer, to cup his face in his hands and trace the darker lines in his brown eyes. The soft movement of Jon’s cheeks under Martin’s hands when he smiles makes it easy to tell him he missed him. Makes it easy to breathe his name. Makes it easy to lean even closer, until the smell of cut herbs and dried ink and watered soil is all around, until they share a breath and then, just then close their eyes to lean even closer and

Martin breathes out a sigh. The flowers in his hands are dying and Jon isn’t here yet.

What a lovely little daydream, what a lovely little lie. He can’t even cook, how would he even be able to do anything in Jon’s kitchen except for spilling flour all over everything. Martin has never been good at cooking, his mom hated whatever he made, for himself he barely makes more than just ready-made dishes or microwave dinners. And really, who would have taught him? Who would even complain about his lack of skills, except for himself? A former partner had, once. But their relationship didn’t last long enough for Martin to learn how to cook for them. Besides, he has a record on not taking care of himself enough.

Again, Martin sighs. He really isn’t anything to dream about.

“Hello? Martin? Is that you?”, Jon’s voice calls from his own garden gate and Martin is on his feet the moment he registers the words.

“Ah- yes!”, he calls back and stumbles down the two steps from the porch to the garden. “Yes, it’s me, I just”

Jon makes his way through his garden with a light step and obvious relief on his face. It was, Martin realises too late, a mistake to wait for Jon to come home.

He’s still wearing, what Martin dubbed his “teacher clothes”. They aren’t fundamentally different from what he usually wears, but they are more professional, more fitting, more likely to be the cause of Martin’s stumbled words. Jon’s shirt fits him well, hugs is shoulders and upper arms nicely, especially when he isn’t wearing his patched jacket. The weather is growing warmer with every day, the possibility of short sleeves creeping on the wind and Martin isn’t sure if Jon even owns short sleeved shirts. He’s not sure if he hopes he does, or if not.

“I”, Martin says, “waited for you.”

“You don’t have to, you know that.” Jon takes the steps to the porch and over to his door.

“I didn’t mind.” He swallows dryly. The flowers in his hands seem far smaller than they did just a moment ago, unfit for a present. Barely saplings compared to the tall grown tree Jon deserves.

Jon unlocks the door and holds it open for Martin. “I made quiche yesterday, but I didn’t know if you like those, so if not, I’m sure I can mix up something different. I might have been inspired by that show, we watched. But it’s… Martin?”

Martin is still standing at the bottom of the porch. “Ah! Yes, sorry, I…” He stumbles the stairs back up. “I was, sorry, I didn’t… uhm, these are for you!” He thrusts the dying flowers forwards and right under Jon’s nose.

Jon takes a step back. “Oh. Thank you.” The words come quickly, like trained text in a play.

“It’s okay if you don’t like them.” Martin moves to take them back, his face is aflame, his skin radiating heat like it tries to dry those flowers even quicker.

“No, Martin, please.” Jon rests one hand underneath Martin’s arm to keep him from pulling away, with the other hand, he reaches for the flowers. “They are lovely. Thank you.”

He pulls his hand back, takes the flowers from Martin. The single point of contact between them is gone before Martin can enjoy it. It’s so gentle, he barely feels it, barely believes a touch can be as gentle as this.

Jon moves away with the flowers. He cradles them in both hands, holds them to his face to breathe in their slowly dying smell. His fingers are slender, hurt and burned, but he’s gentle with the bouquet, as if the flowers were made of glass and tears, holy in his hands as Martin’s name is in his voice.

Martin closes the door behind himself before he steps out of his shoes. He can still feel the warmth of another body where Jon’s hand touched his arm.

“Thank you”, Jon says again, when he sets them down in an appropriate vase. “They are lovely.”

Just like you. Martin doesn’t say, he keeps his tongue under control. “I’m glad.”

“Of course.” Jon’s smile knocks the air out of his lungs, but he’s lucky, Jon doesn’t notice anything, as he turns towards his fridge. “You never answered me.”

“I… p-pardon?”

“Are you okay with quiche? There is no ham in it, I’m afraid, but I used spinach. Just… I thought you would appreciate it.”

“Of course, everything you make is great”, Martin blurts out before he can stop himself.

Jon smiles up at him, with one hand he brushes a loose hair back behind his ear. “Thank you. I am aware my cooking skills aren’t as… traditional as my grandmother might want them to be, but I suppose they are decent.”

 _More than that,_ Martin thinks. He’s on the brink of saying it, of reassuring Jon how amazing he thinks he is, how hard cooking must be, but he doesn’t. He’s not sure if this is already too much, if he’s overstepping a boundary he doesn’t know exist just yet.

Jon pulls a freshly prepared quiche from his fridge and Martin finds himself excited to try it. Not only because it means having another lunch shared with Jon, but also because he was entirely honest when he told him his cooking was great. If nothing else, Martin could easily fall in love with his food as well as Jon himself. And really, who could not fall in love with someone like him. He moves like wind, quickly, but silently, Martin never hears his steps. Every time he stretches to reach for something – a cup, a plate, a bowl – his shirt stretches with him, slowly tugging itself out of his trousers the tiniest bit. His braid, too, is determined to undo itself and Martin’s fingers itch with the restrained desire to pull his hair free of the hair tie and braid it again.

If he were to hold him close, to feel Jon’s body against his, he might have a chance to run his hands through his hair. To catch onto the hair tie and tug it off. Jon’s hair is beautiful, both open and tied back. But Martin knows with the certainty of someone not quite dreaming yet, that his hair wouldn’t just fall free, and what he imagines as beautifully intimate would end with a pained noise on Jon’s part. Because hair ties have the habit of twisting single hairs around themselves just to be a pain when someone tries to pull them off.

“Martin? Are you well?” Jon looks at him concerned. Did he ask something? Did Martin stare at him again? He should stop dreaming about him while he _is actually present._ Oh no, what if he did stare at him with the same stupid grin Tim took a picture of yesterday?! Abort! This is a nightmare!

“Yes, I, sure, I’m gay!”

The second his words are out, Martin desperately wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Here lies Martin Blackwood, gay disaster, who is incapable of talking to his crush in any way.

Jon frowns. “I’m glad you’re comfortable with your sexuality, but I don’t know if I should take it as a positive or…”

“No! No, no, no, I… I mean yes, yeah, I’m gay as in good. Yes, I’m, I’m good, I’m just… uhm… Jon, I’m good, really, I’m peachy. Let’s just eat.”

To demonstrate how absolutely perfectly _gay as in good_ he is, Martin takes the plates from Jon’s hands and ignores how his blush has begun to creep down his cheeks to his neck. Even the contact, when he brushes his hand against Jon’s cannot deepen this blush anymore.

“Are you certain?”, Jon asks behind him.

He lets Martin take the plates and doesn’t stop him from setting the table, but when Martin turns back around, his concern is still there. Before he can reassure him how perfectly well he actually is, Jon’s frown deepens into something more akin to disgust.

 _He knows,_ is all Martin can think. _He knows, and he hates you for it. How could you ever think of him like **that**._

“Did your father call you again? Did he ask you for money?”

“No!”, Martin nearly screams. Anxieties be damned this wasn’t so hard before! “I… I mean”, he clears his throat, “No, I… I haven’t really heard from him except for the occasional message. It’s… it’s actually me, who thinks about asking him for money.”

“How so?” Jon passes him his mug for today. The frown on his face has lifted just a bit, just enough for Martin to know he’s not catching onto anything deeper than this conversation.

“Well, my mom’s nursing home is… I mean it’s not the most expensive, but it’s… yeah, it’s good, comfortable, very nice, so uhm yeah.” Martin sets the two mugs on the table. “Yeah…”

“Are you… do you have trouble paying?”

“Oh no! No, I just… he never… It’s just that he was never there. It was only me, who kept having to pay bills and trying to get money our way, all that. It feels like he, he owes me something. Ridiculous, I know, he doesn’t owe me anything.”

“He does.” Jon sets the steaming quiche down on the table. “He owes you a life. The life he denied you, to be precise.”

Martin’s lips twitch into a smile. Just for a moment, things can be well, just for a second, Jon is right. He deserved better, this wasn’t his fault, it never was. But of course that’s not how life works, that’s not how his reality looks. He’s still paying for the biggest mistake his parents ever made, which is – coincidentally – himself.

“But if you ever need help”, Jon turns to him, his hand just in reach, “you can always come to me.”

Then, Jon lays his hand over Martin’s. He doesn’t grab it, doesn’t take it in his, just leaves the barest of pressure on the back of his hand, just lets the ghost of his warmth haunt Martin’s dreams. His other hand comes to rest at Martin’s upper arm, and Martin looks down at him. In the dark brown of Jon’s eyes, Martin can see the constellations of softer, lighter browns, dotted around his iris like stars in the night sky, just waiting to be explored and named. His lips are parted slightly, not yet to form more words, but waiting for his. His words, or maybe his lips, Martin isn’t sure.

“Thank you”, Martin says, his throat dry, his voice cracked at the edges.

Jon nods. Then smiles. Then leaves him, to sit down on his side of the table, while Martin still stands there, waiting for something else, for a last resolve or for his bravery to win and for him to tell Jon all that he wants to tell him. But only for a moment, then he, too, moves to sit and focus on the food instead.

“Thank you for the meal”, Martin says.

Jon just smiles. It’s everything Martin wanted for today. A smile, a nice day, without worrying about someone figuring out he might have a small (really bad) crush on Jon. And the food is, just as expected, amazing.

“How did you know I liked spinach?”, he asks after a while. He didn’t even know himself. His mother didn’t really cook, even when she still wasn’t as ill. And he usually survives on frozen meals from the supermarket.

“Oh, just… uhm”, Jon frowns into his food, “you told me.”

“I did?”

“It’s – ah, you didn’t? I thought you said, when we had – a few weeks ago, I thought you, you told me then?”

“I uhm… maybe I did, I don’t remember, actually.” It’s not impossible. Maybe he made a comment on how he liked the taste of something without naming it? And he forgot?

Jon looks positively miserable. “I’m sorry, Martin. I shouldn’t have… _assumed._ I can… if you’d rather have something else, I can”

“No, no! I, you’re right, you know? I just… I was surprised, really. But it’s nice! To know you remember what I said better than I do.” Martin laughs, like it’s a good joke.

But Jon… Jon’s shoulders sag down, his eyes trained to his own plate. There is a look of quiet defeat in his eyes, as if he was caught doing something wrong, or forbidden and now pays the price in silent suffering.

“Jon, really, it’s not a big deal, it’s just something I like, and you remembered, that’s actually rather sweet.”

“I shouldn’t have… done that, Martin.”

“Done what? Made an amazing meal?” He gestures to his plate. “Because unless you used the spinach to hide a secret witch brew in this, I don’t see how you should apologise. At all.”

He meant it as a joke, but it doesn’t have the desired effect. Jon shakes his head.

“You don’t… I shouldn’t have _Known._ ”

“So there actually _is_ a secret potion in this?”

“Martin”, Jon sounds exasperated. As if he’s completely missing the point.

“What? I would like to know about any potions in the food I’m getting served by the village witch, _Jon._ ”

Jon runs his hand through his face and says something in a language Martin doesn’t understand, but suspects is Turkish.

“I am not a witch.”

Martin smirks. “Is that what this potion makes me believe?” He takes a bite.

Jon sighs. “I suppose. It seemed the only way to convince you.”

“Hm, very clever. I might have to take classes in witchcraft to match your mighty powers, Mr. Sims.”

Even though Jon lowers his eyes to his food, Martin catches a glimpse of a small smile that starts tugging on the edges of his lips. It’s exactly what he was hoping for but seeing it in front of him has him nearly biting down on his fork.

“I don’t think you do, Mr. Blackwood”, Jon says and Martin’s heart jumps at his name. “You don’t seem to require any lessons, you are rather charming on your own.”

It takes everything in him to stop from staring. Martin’s blush is deep red, probably well on its way over his entire chest and down his arms, and Jon – of course – has to look up at this exact moment. He looks _adorable_ with his smile, his loosening braid, and the mischievous glint in his eyes. He’s trying to be infuriating again, but all it does is make him look good right now.

“So!”, Martin says louder than strictly necessary and startling Jon out of his smile – a shame, really. “You, you said your grandma taught you how to cook? Did... yes?”

He stuffs his mouth with another fork of quiche just to keep himself from falling into his nervous rambling.

“I… yes. My grandmother taught me. She…” Jon fixates him for a moment with eyes too intense to be real, but before Martin can even start to feel uncomfortable, he shakes his head clear of whatever he was thinking.

“I am… sorry, Martin.” He frowns down at his food but keeps talking. “My grandmother was a rather strict woman. She had her own idea of how to raise children, especially children who were… misbehaving. But yes, she taught all her children, including my father and his brothers, how to cook and bake and in general, how to manage a household. She had some traditions she would defend until her death, but only teaching her daughters or granddaughters about households was none of those.”

Martin smiles what he hopes is an encouraging smile. “So she was your father’s mother?”

“Yes.”

“What about your mother’s parents?”

“I… I never met them. Or at least I don’t remember them. After my mother died none of my relatives really… wanted… to take me in. But my grandmother decided to sacrifice herself to keep me from falling into the hands of child services, so after I moved, we never really visited them. They… it’s hard to stay in touch if the only thing connecting you is a dead mother and dead child. I don’t think they… wanted to stay in touch.”

“You don’t have to tell me any of this, if it is too much.” Martin wants to reach out again, to trap Jon’s hand in his and hold him, to give him something to hold onto. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Would it really be for Jon’s sake or just for his selfish desire to hold him close? Without an answer, he rather doesn’t move at all.

“It’s quite alright, Martin”, Jon lies. Martin can see the way his shoulders sagged away, how his body loses all tension keeping him up, keeping him stable. He smiles, and Martin longs to hold him, to make sure he’s safe from this world that seems hellbent on breaking and hurting him.

“I don’t really remember her. But my relatives told me I have her smile. And I had… I had her eyes… before…” – he touches the corner of his eye – “That might be the reason they didn’t particular enjoy my presents nobody wants a constant reminder of a lost loved one around, do they?”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

Jon chuckles. “No. It doesn’t.”

Martin reaches out. Jon’s hand is warm under his, the scar tissue rough against his palm.

“I miss them”, Jon says, his voice so silent Martin has to strain his ears to understand him. “Funny, isn’t it? how you can miss a person you have never met. Someone you will never know. I know a lot about them. I know that my father once tried to forge my grandfather’s signature to call in sick for school. My grandmother told me about it. So… I know a lot about them. It’s just… not my own memories. I don’t remember them. I don’t even really _know_ them. I just know _about_ them.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin squeezes his hand, just a little, just to remind him he’s here if he needs him.

“I’m… sorry, Martin. This isn’t exactly what you were getting at, I suppose.”

It wasn’t. And he hates this. The way Jon said his name just now, all tired, exhausted, so lost like he expects Martin to leave him here if he keeps talking, it hurts. It hurts them both as it seems.

_I love you. And I will never let anything hurt you again._

It’s the wrong time.

“You can always talk to me about everything. I promise I will always listen.” Martin pulls his hand back, takes his fork up again. “But for now, if you want to, you can also just… talk about school? Or maybe, do you want to know what kind of statements I read today? There were some crazy ones among them.”

Jon looks up again, his smile sits back in place. Martin is suddenly very glad they sit inside; every little gust of wind could have blown this smile away. It’s just as fragile, as dying as his flowers.

“I would love to, Martin.”

_I love you. Even if you will never know. I will always – always – be here for you._

“Okay, so… where do I even start?”  
♣

> **Tim:** Martin!  
>  **Tim:** Martin!  
>  **Tim:** Hey! Martini!  
>  **Tim:** Come on! How’s ur date going????  
>  **Tim:** This is important field research!
> 
> **Sasha:** How is you pestering Martin important research
> 
> **Tim:** Martin! c’mon spill ur tea!  
>  **Tim:** Because
> 
> **Sasha:** Ah yes
> 
> **Tim:** He’s not answering…. U know what that means……….
> 
> **Sasha:** Yes they’re eating and not reading your messages Timothy
> 
> **Tim:** Or maybe they r……………….. not?  
>  **Tim:** Martin! Hows your date??? Is Jon a bad kisser???  
>  **Tim:** Holy shit what if he is???  
>  **Tim:** Kinda always thought he’d be real good at kissing
> 
> **Sasha:** How so  
>  **Sasha:** you never tried
> 
> **Tim:** Just assumed, he looks like someone who would be good at it???  
>  **Tim:** Martin! Is ur boyfriend good at kissing?????
> 
> **Sasha:** Tim, stop pressuring him  
>  **Sasha:** Martin, just answer us when you can
> 
> **Tim:** But u 2 think he should aswer  
>  **Tim:** *answer
> 
> **Sasha:** just a little worried that’s all
> 
> **Tim:** Maybe we should just drive over to Jon’s and make sure they r both safe???
> 
> **Sasha:** no that’s a little too much  
>  **Sasha:** we’re not stalking you, Martin
> 
> **Tim:** unless u don’t answer soon! We might get 2 worried!
> 
> **Sasha:** stop using numbers when you text, Timothy
> 
> **Tim:** they r only 4 u sash =*
> 
> **Sasha:** Timothy Stoker I fucking swear
> 
> **Tim:** Martin’s typing! Hey Martin! How was ur date!  
>  **Tim:** Also hurry up I wanna read that be4 sash kills me  
>  **Tim:** 4 math crimes
> 
> **Sasha:** TIM!
> 
> **Martin:** … I told him I’m gay. But gay as in good
> 
> **Tim:** ure the worst  
>  **Tim:** mayb u need flirting lessons from me  
>  **Tim:** think that’ll help?
> 
> **Martin:** I think he didn’t even notice?
> 
> **Sasha:** With Jon? Possible but why would you want that
> 
> **Martin:** bc it means he doesn’t think I’m a total creep?!
> 
> **Tim:** u have lunch dates every Wednesday, he likes u just jump him
> 
> **Martin:** no.  
>  **Martin:** Also I nearly made him cry
> 
> **Tim:** oof very unsexy  
>  **Tim:** f for Martin  
>  **Tim:** f
> 
> **Sasha:** It can’t have been that bad
> 
> **Tim:** Sash’s right  
>  **Tim:** ure Martin ure like the ultimate perfect boyfriend  
>  **Tim:** mayb it was happy crying? U don’t know
> 
> **Martin:** I do. And it wasn’t  
>  **Martin:** anyway, I still have boxes to unpack and if youre still hung up on this tomorrow let’s just stop this here
> 
> **Tim:** hold on hold on stop no  
>  **Tim:** u didn’t answer the most important question?????
> 
> **Martin:** Which was what again
> 
> **Tim:** Is Jon a good kisser???????????
> 
> **Martin:** see you tomorrow
> 
> **Tim:** no!!!!  
>  **Tim:** Martin!!  
>  **Tim:** It’s for science!!!!
> 
> **Sasha:** that’s your punishment for your math crimes timothy
> 
> **Tim:** no1 can punish me 4 those  
>  **Tim:** they r the punishment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not kidding you guys, I'm so hyped for next chapter! It's so much fun to write and I get to try out a new format, which is always exciting! I'm really looking forward to publishing it! =DD
> 
> Next up: Ding, dong, here’s your official invitation to the end of the world


	17. How to worry … about the wrong things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding, dong, here’s your official invitation to the end of the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t worry, things are not half as bad as you might think they are, I don’t take Elias serious enough for that
> 
> On a different note: This was the very first scene I thought of when I started planning this fic, so enjoy! I really, really love this chapter!

It’s Saturday when Jon finds the letter in his mail box. On the back, it states his name and title as Archivist. The seal is made of yellow wax with a stylised owl pressed into it. The letter inside reeks of fear so badly, Jon can feel it even before he holds it in his hands.

Elias sent it, that much is clear. What for, he can’t tell without reading it, but he hopes it is worth his time. Just in case it isn’t, he sets it down on the kitchen counter with the rest of his mail.

“Such a classic masterplan, Elias, sending me a letter.”

The letter doesn’t answer, just sits there on his counter waiting for him to open it. Simon or some other Vast avatars must have delivered it. No human postman would have been able to carry this for longer than a heartbeat. Just to be an annoyance, Jon sprays a few drops of water onto the letter with his spray can.

The letter doesn’t move and doesn’t complain. Jon’s fingers itch to open it, to read whatever waits there hidden under a thin layer of paper. He’s curious, has always been curious. It’s what brought him into this mess.

“I have some things to do”, he tells the letter as if it was Elias, “so whatever you want to tell me, can wait.”

With his spray can, he leaves the letter in his kitchen and starts tending to the few indoor plants that still clutter up his living room. He takes them inside over the winter but sets them back into the garden once it’s warm enough for them to survive. Some find the controlled warmth of his home nicer than the temperatures outside. It’s always a struggle to set them back outside.

They can’t really fight against him, but plants are, contrary to popular belief, drama queens. This is not the only year Jon uses the same water with just the right pH level for his rose bushes and has his head full of nonsensical plant complaints about acidity and the vague concept of death somewhere between. It’s his roses’ way of saying: “This water has a too low quality, we are dying without proper regulations here!”

What he looks after now, are not his roses and definitely not the peonies who keep waiting for some more sun. It’s the small bouquet Martin bought for him.

Jon makes sure their water is still nutritious enough, even after three days in their vase. He sprays the leaves and flowerheads with his water can, just to give them some humidity they can work with. The greenery filling up space has given up already, left hanging, still green, still filling, but hopeless in its endeavour to grow. Jon rests one finger underneath the grass like blades, but all he registers – far off, on the edges of his mind already fading into static – is the faint memory of pain and the longing for a warm, soft bed of soil that engulfs roots in a promise of growth and life.

The flowers bemoan their existence, forced to feed on supplements that can’t support any long-lasting life, any growth they long for. Their stems hurt where they were cut, but they still take in what little life Jon can offer them. Even as it’s dying, life resists death for as long as it can.

Cut flowers have a cruel fate. They look so beautiful, they look so alive even when in pain, even while dying in the very hands that deliver them. And Martin looked so insecure holding them. Unsure if Jon would refuse them. As if Jon could ever refuse anything Martin of all people offered him.

Jon lifts one of the orange lilies with his burned hand. There waits the far off pain of something alive but without conscience. Plants don’t feel fear. They can communicate, they can thrive and live, so of course they can also be in pain. Other than humans or animals, plants don’t fear this pain. They don’t look into the future and think about how there might be fearful things out there, terrible things that’ll hurt them. They just live. And when they do get hurt, they scream their pain into the world.

The lily petals catch on Jon’s fingers, loose, but they don’t fall just yet.

“I’m sorry”, he says. Maybe he should press them, dry them to preserve their colours and shapes, to set a smaller bouquet of dried flowers on his windowsill. But they still stand on the table in his living room. Their smell is tainted with soft decay already.

“I shouldn’t keep you alive so long.” He sighs as he gets back up. “But you were a gift. And I… you remind me of him. So please excuse my indulgence.”

The flowers don’t answer. They can’t. Of course not.

Jon doesn’t blame Martin for bringing death into his house. This isn’t the End, this is a fearless death; inevitable, but tragic nonetheless. Martin wouldn’t have done it had he known. To him these were just flowers, pretty flowers with a nice smell, something to enjoy, something beautiful. A small gift. For Jon of all people.

_Martin stood in the shop for a while, in front of the different flowers they had to offer, his blush delightfully red, very decidedly ignoring the roses he had reached for at first._

Jon shakes the Beholding out of his thoughts sharply. This isn’t something for him to know. He’s not playing “I spy with my Eye” for any longer. Not with Martin of all people. He doesn’t deserve it. Nobody does, actually, but Jon can excuse the Eye’s intrusion when it tells him how much some of his pupils struggled with their homework and who needs a repetition of what to help them understand. Even the occasional “they’re cheating on their partner” the Eye slips into his brain, isn’t much of a problem to him. Usually someone – one of the parents mostly – will slip and tell him anyway. It’s hard to keep secrets from him. Not because he asks to be told, but because the Eye, upon figuring out how much he fights against his powers, keeps an aura of “trust me, tell me your secrets, I’m safe” around him at all times.

And humans are like moths in the blinding light of his powers. He’s so careful to keep them an armlength away… and the second he lets someone closer, the second he falls into a comfortable routine with Martin, the Eye has to stick its nose into his affairs again.

And so does Elias.

Jon turns to the unopened mail in his kitchen. His fingers itch to rip open Elias’ letter. The Eye, too, wants to Know, needs to See. The hidden words create their own gravitation, pulling him closer and closer, until he’s left consciously fighting against reading it.

But he _wants_ to. He _needs_ to. There’s nothing more important than this letter. Not his plants, not the world, not even Martin.

Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s holding the letter again. His fingers pick at the seal. It’s easy to break. Just the bit of wax right here separating him from whatever is inside, whatever surprise awaits him.

The Eye tries to peek through the curtain of paper, but it comes away with high pitched static. The Lonely and the Vast had something to do with this letter. Simon, most likely, delivered it. Peter must have marked it to make sure Jon can’t _see_ inside and decide to send it back unopened.

The static sets his mind back, allows him to take a step back.

“The more you want this”, Jon tells the letter, “the longer it’ll take me to read you. If you’ll excuse me now? I have some roses just waiting to be dramatic about water.”

* * *

> **Tim:** to summarise:  
>  **Tim:** u don’t want to ask him out bc  
>  **Tim:** 1 ure a coward  
>  **Tim:** that’s it
> 
> **Sasha:** play nice, Tim
> 
> **Martin:** I told you, I dont want to ask him out because hes out of my league  
>  **Martin:** Im sure hes not interested anyway
> 
> **Tim:** oh of course!  
>  **Tim:** the guy u have lunch dates with every week and pretty much fell asleep on his couch with secretly hates u  
>  **Tim:** sure
> 
> **Sasha:** Did you even ask Jon about this?
> 
> **Martin:** Tim those arent lunch dates
> 
> **Tim:** but u did cuddle on his couch  
>  **Tim:** hell I never even got a hug out of him =(((((  
>  **Tim:** Martin is hogging Jon
> 
> **Martin:** Im not  
>  **Martin:** you can talk about us “cuddling” as much as you want but it wasn’t like that at all
> 
> **Sasha:** did you ask Jon?
> 
> **Martin:** it still doesn’t mean anything
> 
> **Tim:** ok but he wouldn’t do that with just anybody
> 
> **Sasha:** Martin, did you ask Jon what he thinks?
> 
> **Martin:** ………………  
>  **Martin:** no Sasha I didn’t  
>  **Martin:** I cant just ask him  
>  **Martin:** Hey Jon would you like to go on a date with me, the awkward guy who forced himself into your life without stopping to ask you if you were comfortable at all?
> 
> **Tim:** like that but more confidently
> 
> **Martin:** Ha-ha
> 
> **Sasha:** Why can’t you just ask him out for dinner?  
>  **Sasha:** Hey Jon, do you want to go out for dinner with me?  
>  **Sasha:** Copy this and send it to Jon
> 
> **Martin:** I cant just do that
> 
> **Tim:** to b fair u guys have dinner every Wednesday  
>  **Tim:** he cooks every time  
>  **Tim:** he knows ur food preferences  
>  **Tim:** just. Jump. Him.
> 
> **Martin:** no
> 
> **Sasha:** Martin, Jon really enjoys your company, he wouldn’t turn you down without a good reason
> 
> **Martin:** guys  
>  **Martin:** have you met him?  
>  **Martin:** hes an elementary school teacher  
>  **Martin:** I work as a parapsychologist  
>  **Martin:** you know the cases we work with they are weird and not normal and disgusting  
>  **Martin:** jon really doesn’t need someone like me in his life who idk gives the supernatural a oneway ticket into his life
> 
> **Sasha:** but don’t you often talk about your cases?
> 
> **Martin:** yes but mostly the fake ones  
>  **Martin:** think about it for a second  
>  **Martin:** imagine you’re Jon and you’re living a perfectly normal, not supernatural life

* * *

Around noon, Jon runs out of tasks to occupy his mind with and keep his curiosity in check. His plants are (mostly) content with what he presented them with, the cottage is too clean for him to talk himself into cleaning it again, and the letter on his counter still pulls him into its orbit every time he passes it.

The Eye isn’t much help either, it stirs him towards the yet unknown words. It urges him to find out, to reach for the knowledge at his fingertips and dip his hand inside, to indulge in his need to know. Curiosity maybe killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back. And Jon can only hold his claws for so long.

He can only starve himself for so long, can only resist his surrogate god’s pressure to seek more knowledge, more secrets, more pain, until he gives in – or breaks under the pressure.

Jon grabs the letter and a knife. The seal breaks readily under his fingers, the barest hint of a tug has it open up. The fear this letter is drenched in, seeps out, permeates the air all around and has Jon’s eye burn as acidic green as a witch’s potion. The promise of more, of change and triumph, hangs in the air. The Eye loves him for giving in, adores his hunger for knowledge, but it still wants more, needs to feed and to feast on what secrets Elias bares.

The paper gives easily under his fingers. The letter itself isn’t a lot, not half as fancy as you would expect from someone like Elias. It’s plain, the writing on its front the only speck of colour on it. Like drips of paint on otherwise beautiful flower petals. He unfolds it, opening more and more words to the world.

Jon takes a shaking breath. The letter is not long per se, but the words are… heavy. His hands hold more than just paper and ink, more even than simple fear. The promise of change clogs up his lungs, every breath carrying an unspoken word, a need to speak, to find what waits in his hands, what might come of it. Only just a promise, not reality, not quite a truth in any regard, but a possibility.

With one last breath, Jon braces himself – this’ll need his full attention, the full force of all his eyes probably. Then, the Eye perks up like a too curious lap dog hearing the jingle of keys before the front door even opens.

Instead of the words in front of him, his attention redirects itself to his phone. It’s silent. No new messages, no calls.

When the display lights up, Jon already set down the letter and picked up his phone in anticipation of Georgie’s call. It’s what the Eye does. Especially when he’s as focussed on his connection to it, as he is now.

“Jon!”, Georgie greets him with, long used to him taking her calls immediately.

“Georgie. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” He breathes out the rest of the tension still lingering in his bones. The letter is still there but shoved to the back of his mind for now.

“Did Elias send you one of his letters as well?” There’s the rustling of paper as Georgie unfolds something on her side.

“Yes, he did.” Jon flicks his letter to the other side of his kitchen where it lands on the floor.

“What do you think?”

He shrugs. “I haven’t read it yet.”

“It’s… It might be personalised, so I can’t tell you what he wrote to you, but he sent _me_ one.”

“And it says…?”

More paper rustling follows from Georgie’s end. “It’s an invitation.” She clears her throat for a second, then puts on her best Elias-imitation. It’s too nasal to really sound like Elias, but it adds to the whole experience. “ _My dearest Georgina, let me begin this with a congratulation. Jon was unwilling to tell me of your wedding so I, in turn, was unable to send a gift._ I’m not even getting married? What the fu- hell?”

 _But you will,_ he doesn’t say. The Eye happily informs him Melanie has not asked her yet. A rather obvious fact. But in contrary to Elias, who knows of Melanie’s plans from the Beholding, Jon was chosen to help Melanie shop for engagement rings.

Jon smiles. He knows she can’t see it, but trusts she picks it up in his voice. “You can swear around me, I’m not a child.”

“Okay, but we’ve been friends for years now and I’ve never heard you say fuck. At all. It’s always just _good lord_ this and _dear lord no_ that!” She huffs.

Her impression of him has improved drastically, and he suspects she still reads the submissions for her podcast in his voice (and adds the running commentary he used to keep up). It was his job, for a long while, to read them out loud for her to decide which one she finds most interesting and might be good for a special episode. Stayed his thing until he had to move away, really. Sometimes, on the longest days, in nights that just don’t end, at times he misses it. Misses them.

“Oh good lord I hope my cussing habits are not too much of a bother.”

“One day”, her smile is audible in both her voice and her sigh, “someone will punch you in the face for being a menace.”

She hesitates.

“Of course that would mean, me and Melanie had to come over and punch that guy right back. But that’s beside the point.”

“Right, the point is: Elias is being deliberately creepy again.”

“Spooky.”

Jon pulls a disgusted face, but Georgie just keeps going before he can get a word in. Besides, she knows he hates that word. It’s why she loves to use it around him.

“Right, so it’s an invite actually. Addressed to me, but it lists the title “the Omen” which I do not approve of.”

“Please address all complaints to Mr. Bouchard himself, he will sort through them and find a suitable bin for each one”, he says in his best customer service voice.

“That wasn’t really your job at the library, was it?”

“It was supposed to, but things… changed. Often.” He stares at his own letter. “But that doesn’t matter now, you said it was an invite? To what?”

There’s silence on the other end. Just for a moment, just long enough for Jon to worry he lost her. Then Georgie takes a deep breath and says:

“To the end of the world.”

* * *

> **Tim:** Yes I can imagine that  
>  **Tim:** lets try it  
>  **Tim:** Hello. I am Jon. I am a normal human. It is pleasurable to make your acquaintance.
> 
> **Martin:** he doesnt text like that but sure I guess  
>  **Martin:** anyway  
>  **Martin:** now imagine ME  
>  **Martin:** im part of a supernatural investigating organisation and research ghosts  
>  **Martin:** jon doesnt need this kind of weirdness in his life
> 
> **Sasha:** okay I’m imagining you  
>  **Sasha:** Hi, I’m Martin. I’m a kind and thoughtful person, always tending to the needs of others, always open for hugs, and I make the best tea ever. Nice to meet you.  
>  **Sasha:** holy shit Tim just send already what are you typing
> 
> **Tim:** Hello Martin, I am honoured to make your acquaintance. While it is truly impossible to measure my delight I will try to describe the immense joy overtaking mind and spirit the moment I lay eyes on you. You are, for a lack of words, the most fascinating man ever to have crossed my path. And I wish to spend all my time staring lovingly into your eyes.  
>  **Tim:** sry google has no english to posh that shit takes time
> 
> **Martin:** he doesnt text like that Tim
> 
> **Sasha:** Why thank you Jon! I, too, love you! Now let us be happy in each others arms!
> 
> **Tim:** That sounds like an adequate solution for our feelings, I approve of your idea Martin
> 
> **Martin:** guys
> 
> **Sasha:** that’s how things should go
> 
> **Tim:** u know we r right
> 
> **Martin:** why am I even talking to you?
> 
> **Tim:** bc we r gr8
> 
> **Sasha:** don’t start this again
> 
> **Tim:** owo :3c
> 
> **Sasha:** No.
> 
> **Tim:** Hewwo Mawtin, I’m Jon, I luv u :3
> 
> **Martin:** why
> 
> **Sasha:** okay ignoring Tim  
>  **Sasha:** now where were we?
> 
> **Martin:** bad impersonations
> 
> **Sasha:** just tell him to go out with you what’s the worst that could happen?
> 
> **Martin:** He Could Say Yes
> 
> **Tim:** ok now im lost  
>  **Tim:** hows that bad?
> 
> **Martin:** he says yes > we go out > we talk > I mess up > he doesnt want anything to do with me ever again
> 
> **Tim:** but??? Isn’t that just what u do on ur lunch dates??? Sit around and talk???
> 
> **Martin:** that’s different
> 
> **Tim:** hows that different?? U sit down and eat and talk? And after a date u mayb make out? like that’s 10000% what you do already?
> 
> **Sasha:** sans the make-out
> 
> **Tim:** yeah
> 
> **Martin:** that’s ok  
>  **Martin:** by Now  
>  **Martin:** you don’t know what a disaster I was when he invited me over the first time  
>  **Martin:** I cant do this
> 
> **Tim:** bc its new and scary?
> 
> **Sasha:** okay but this is Jon we’re talking about. Not to insult Martin’s boyfriend but I don’t think he would notice you being awkward
> 
> **Martin:** hes not my boyfriend
> 
> **Sasha:** yet
> 
> **Tim:** I think he finds it endearing  
>  **Tim:** also just to get back to marto’s point  
>  **Tim:** ure not bringing some vampires home  
>  **Tim:** and he knows a lot about what goes on here?  
>  **Tim:** like people tell him about their fucked up encounters a lot
> 
> **Sasha:** true  
>  **Sasha:** so he’s not entirely new to the supernatural  
>  **Sasha:** really can’t tell how many actually dangerous Magnus books he’s seen, but even if he’s way less involved in this stuff, your job shouldn’t be a reason not to ask him out
> 
> **Tim:** what sash said  
>  **Tim:** even if he has to deal with more weirdness when u guys marry, that’s not the end of the world

* * *

“The end of the world”, Jon repeats Georgie’s words.

“It appears like our dear Mr. Bouchard-Lukas wants to try his own ritual.” Another paper rustle right before Georgie reads from her letter: “ _Changing our world, bringing Fears (or our respectable Fear itself) into this realm has always been a focus point of all our joined effort to serve the Dread Powers._ As if any avatar ever enjoys working with some different Fear. I can’t imagine any ritual involving all Fears can end without bloodshed. Just imagine a Vast and a Buried Avatar in the same room.”

Jon hums. He holds his phone between his cheek and shoulder, then heaves himself up to sit on his counter.

“He doesn’t write much about what he plans, though. It’s just: _The ritual itself will be a simple affair. However, I can assure you all Fears will have something to gain from it._ ”

“I don’t think there’s a ritual for all Fears anybody wanted to participate in willingly.” Jon has to supress a shiver. He… he worked together with the Stranger before. After Elias’ chosen Archivist was kidnapped by the Dark. Back in those times, when people thought of him as a funny toy, but nothing more than an errand boy, not important enough to make it on their kill-lists. Working together with the Stranger, or the Vast, hell even the Web is not an impossible feat. Working together on a joined ritual? Even if he was inclined to change the world (which he is not), that’s a hard No.

“He still sent those to every important Avatar”, Georgie huffs, “or those he deems important.”

“So the leaders or authorities of their… uhm… respectable groups, I assume.”

Georgie nods. He _knows_. “Apparently. Oliver called this morning. He received one, too. So did Annabelle. And Daisy, for some reason.”

“I can imagine. Getting a grip on Hunters can be very hard, easier to reach out to those you know where to find.”

“About that… well, Basira is…”

“Not amused?”

“Mad.”

“I hope at Elias, and not at me again.”

Blindly, he reaches for his cup, but it’s empty and – most importantly – still waiting in the sink for him to clean it. The letter on the floor waits for him, but Jon makes a point of stepping on it when he gets up from his counter and makes his way to his sink.

“Daisy is thinking about actually joining. Not to help the ritual actually succeed, but to keep an _eye_ out.”

“And I am said eye she’s trying to keep away from trouble?” Jon sets his phone to speaker and pours dish soap over his mug.

“You said it first. But yes. Daisy wants to join if just to make sure Elias’ plan doesn’t involve sacrificing you to the Eye.”

Jon frowns down at his cup, it’s shampooed in quite nicely. The End might get something out of human sacrifices, but to the Eye it is just a waste of knowledge.

“Honestly, I won’t come”, Georgie says, her voice even _sounds_ like a shrug, “don’t wait for me with all the fun.”

“Fun.” He scrubs over his cup. “Because dealing with Elias can be so much fun. Yes. I forgot.”

“But that’s just what my letter said. Really sure yours has the same basics of “hey Jon I’m planning a ritual, come over and help me” and then some more useless explanations.”

“Possible.” He rinses his cup under warm water. The letter lies somewhere in his back. “I might have to attend just to make sure he leaves the village alone.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. But I know you will anyway and then get hurt.” She sighs. “Daisy should really come with you then. If just to keep you alive.”

_Why would you even try that? How much better would it be had I never even heard of the library and the things beyond? How much easier would it make your lives if I just… disappeared?_

He doesn’t say anything else, just gives an affirmative noise. With a clean kitchen towel he dries his cup off, still listening to Georgie’s worries.

“Just by the way, I know I had Helen give you the note. I might not make it? Especially before Elias’ plan. So you might be stuck with Daisy and no Georgie at all. Make a sad noise.”

Jon snorts. “What a pity.”

“That wasn’t a sad noise, but I take it.”

“It’s okay, Georgie. You can just come over afterwards. It’s not like it’ll work anyway. I mean, what is he going to do? It’ll be a disaster, he’s just going to be the biggest joke of the twenty-first century. And he already won that prize once, in the eighteenth century.”

“Yes, well, promise me you’ll be careful, Jon. Just… just promise me.” Georgie’s voice never shakes. It… well it did, once. But it was a time, he’s still trying to forget. Georgie’s voice never quivers, she always knows what to do, where to go, how to handle things. But there’s still, will always be, a last rest of uncertainty behind her words. It’s because she has to deal with Jon, or because she doesn’t trust Elias, or because she’d rather he didn’t go there, maybe all of these.

“I… I’m…” _I’m sorry, Georgie. I shouldn’t worry you like this, this shouldn’t be a problem for you to concern yourself with._

“Jon, repeat after me.” She pauses for a second in which Jon flicks on his kettle. “Georgie”, she pauses again, and Jon hesitates for a moment before repeating after her:

“Georgie.”

“I promise you-“

“I promise you.” The water in the kettle heats up.

“To look after myself-“

“To look after myself.” He still has some of the tea mix he made for Martin when he stayed over the last time, doesn’t he? That sounds like a good choice.

“And to ask-“

“And to ask.” Jon reaches up into his assortments of different teas, half of which are store-bought, the other half are self-made or mixed.

“Out that cute guy.”

“Out tha- wait what?” He nearly drops his tea.

On her end, Georgie giggles. There is, he hears only now, the distinct sound of a second voice whispering something hushed.

“Is Melanie listening in on this?”, he asks.

“Absolutely not”, Melanie says. “Do carry on.”

“Okay, but”, Georgie says, “you read my note. I know you had a… a guest, let’s call him a guest.”

“Is this really important right now?” His kettle clicks off next to him. “With all the Elias-situation going on?”

“If nothing else”, Melanie says, her voice getting louder as she, presumably, moves the phone closer to her, “right now is the perfect moment. If everything goes to shit in a couple of days anyway, you can at least tell us more about your boyfriend.”

“Martin is not my boyfriend.”

“So his name is Martin now?”, Georgie scrambles for the phone (Jon just fills his tea into a teabag).

“It has always been Martin, you just now know it.”

“I hate you”, Melanie says, but Georgie shushes her.

“So, your Martin, what’s his connection to the fears?”

“He’s not “my Martin”, he’s just… well himself.” Jon pours the hot water into his cup. “And he has no connection to them. Except that one tried to eat him once.”

There’s a pause in which Jon offers up no further information.

“What do you mean one tried to eat him?” Georgie’s voice comes closer. “There are fourteen fears, which one tried to eat your boyfriend?”

“There are fifteen actually. Or soon there will be.” Jon bobs his teabag a little. “The Extinction’s emergence is undeniable by now.”

“Jonathan Sims”, Melanie says clearly from the other side of Georgie, “which Fear is after your boyfriend’s ass?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Jon sighs. “But it was the Lonely. He’s safer now, but I was rather worried.”

“Understandable, but”, Georgie again, “you don’t just offer up your spare room to anybody. What’s so special about this one?”

 _Nothing,_ is what Jon wants to say. _I’d offer my spare room to Tim or Sasha as well. Or anybody in this village finding themselves sucked into the Lonely._ It’s only a little bit of a lie, not too much. Maybe his offer isn’t open to just anybody, and maybe Martin isn’t just nobody. Not anymore at least.

“I might have – and this is just a hypothetical”, he clears his throat. “Maybe I found myself enjoying his company. And he therefore has – and I’m not saying this actually happened, it’s just a, a hypothetical.”

“Of course”, Georgie says. Every the professional even if the curiosity seeps right through the phone.

“He might have spent another night here. And”, this isn’t exactly important, really not, there are far more important things to do – Elias’ letter, making sure nobody gets killed – but he’s also pretty sure Georgie will kill him if he doesn’t tell her. “And maybe he didn’t do so in my, my spare room.”

There’s silence. For a moment, for one, two heartbeats there is silence.

Then, Georgie screams “He what?!” loud enough to drown out Melanie’s laugh.

* * *

> **Martin:** 1\. We will not marry  
>  **Martin:** 2\. I cannot just ask him out  
>  **Martin:** 3\. End of discussion
> 
> **Tim:** I could
> 
> **Martin:** you could what?
> 
> **Tim:** ask Jon out
> 
> **Martin:** but why would you?
> 
> **Tim:** bc u clearly won’t
> 
> **Martin:** yes but that doesn’t mean I want someone else to do it!
> 
> **Sasha:** okay so you don’t want to ask him out, but you also don’t want anybody else to ask him out
> 
> **Tim:** Jon is a nice catch  
>  **Tim:** maybe ull have to fight for his heart
> 
> **Martin:** Tim
> 
> **Sasha:** I mean he isn’t wrong? If you don’t ask him out, someone else will at one point
> 
> **Martin:** can’t I just be blissfully oblivious and dream about possibilities without having to do anything?
> 
> **Tim:** no!!
> 
> **Sasha:** No
> 
> **Martin:** fine  
>  **Martin:** I still can’t ask him out  
>  **Martin:** not like not wanting to  
>  **Martin:** but like Im awkward
> 
> **Tim:** true that so just stop it
> 
> **Martin:** >:(
> 
> **Sasha:** okay, bear with me on this, okay?  
>  **Sasha:** you go over to his next Wednesday for your lunch date
> 
> **Martin:** okay?  
>  **Martin:** also not a date
> 
> **Sasha:** sure  
>  **Sasha:** there you just have your normal lunch conversation like always  
>  **Sasha:** and you just say “Hey Jon, we’ve known each other for a while now, and I realised I really enjoy your company. Would you like to go out with me? on Friday maybe, for lunch again?”
> 
> **Tim:** say dinner that’s more romantic
> 
> **Sasha:** for dinner then as long as you get this out
> 
> **Martin:** okay I see your plan  
>  **Martin:** one problem  
>  **Martin:** Im the one who has to say it  
>  **Martin:** so thats a hard no
> 
> **Sasha:** it doesn’t even matter how you say it, Jon will say yes
> 
> **Tim:** hell yes!! There’s no way he would refuse u!  
>  **Tim:** like he fell asleep on u?  
>  **Tim:** he makes u lunch every week
> 
> **Sasha:** Don’t forget he makes food with what YOU LIKE MOST
> 
> **Tim:** exactly!!  
>  **Tim:** we can see u typing Martin u know that right?
> 
> **Martin:** yes I know tim  
>  **Martin:** Im just not sure  
>  **Martin:** I have moderate to severe idiot syndrome
> 
> **Tim:** you don’t
> 
> **Sasha:** No  
>  **Sasha:** and Jon has severe loving Martin disease
> 
> **Tim:** he does ask about u a lot
> 
> **Martin:** okay but  
>  **Martin:** im out of reasons  
>  **Martin:** its not as if I don’t want to ask him  
>  **Martin:** im just really afraid  
>  **Martin:** also insecure  
>  **Martin:** and im me
> 
> **Tim:** and u r a great guy to be
> 
> **Sasha:** exactly what Tim said  
>  **Sasha:** Jon is lucky to have you in his life
> 
> **Tim:** we all are!!  
>  **Tim:** I mean it! we love u! and u deserve to know!  
>  **Tim:** and Jon knows it too
> 
> **Sasha:** write a letter maybe if you know you can’t talk about it in front of him?  
>  **Sasha:** or write it down and just read it to him? pretend he’s not there?
> 
> **Martin:** thank you guys  
>  **Martin:** <3  
>  **Martin:** do you really think that would work?
> 
> **Sasha:** of course!
> 
> **Tim:** and if u still can’t say it just let him read it
> 
> **Sasha:** perfect!
> 
> **Martin:** but what if I cant talk while on a date with him?  
>  **Martin:** What if he says yes and I make the date weird?
> 
> **Sasha:** maybe cross that bridge when you get there
> 
> **Tim:** if ure lucky u don’t have to bc the world ends or something
> 
> **Sasha:** yeah maybe the world ends before you have to actually go out with him so let’s just concentrate on the asking out part?
> 
> **Martin:** you guys are not half as reassuring as you think you are
> 
> **Sasha:** at least we can tell you that Jon will 100% say yes when you ask him out

* * *

“I will not”, Jon says for the fourth or sixth time in the last hour.

“Oh come on, you just go up to him and say”, Melanie pitches her voice higher, “Oh Martin! I am hopelessly enamoured by your charm! Please marry me or I will die of a broken heart!”

“Isn’t that a little overdramatic?” Jon finished his tea a while ago, but he’s still debating if he wants to make some more.

Melanie snorts. “Says the theatre kid.”

“Look, there is no reason to believe Martin would actually want to”

“He brought you flowers!”

“Ye- well technically he did. But I just- okay, there is no reason for me to ask him out at all. I enjoy his company, I really like him around, however – and this is important. I am a danger to be around. Martin lives a perfectly normal life. Whereas I’m the Archivist, I literally feed the Fear of being watched, of having all your inner secrets revealed.”

“So?” Melanie drags the vowel for longer than necessary.

“I already”, Jon leans heavily on his counter. “I already knew too much. I tried so hard to keep out of his head, but in the end, I… just couldn’t. I … can’t be trusted.”

“Jon. All you did was to know this guy’s favourite vegetable.”

“That’s how it starts, Mel! And next time I’m _knowing_ how… why his Dad left him! I imagine that’s bad date etiquette.”

Melanie snaps her fingers. “Well, maybe you should have a talk with him before that happens. Tell him all about the Fears and that dating you includes letting the God of Being in Everyone Else’s Business into his life as well. But that sounds more like a second date conversation to me.”

“Yes, thank you. I worked that one out myself.” Jon buries his face in both hands. The phone is set to speaker again, so that he can ruffle up his braid while making helpful expressions Melanie can’t see. Georgie is off the phone for now. Very much aware of how stubborn he can be.

“Before you can say that, you first have to get to know him better. The normal know”, she adds just as Jon is about to object.

“Is there even a normal for me anymore?”, he mutters under his breath, but Melanie hears him anyway.

“There is, it’s just a little harder to reach. Listen, just because this whole dating deal is a little harder if you’re in the mix doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“But what if he decides I’m not worth that much work?”

He can see it. the kind smile on Martin’s lips when he tells him that: “I’m sorry Jon, but I think we might be better off as friends.” He can’t take the rejection. The plain proof of how much he wants this, of how devastating it will be when he will inevitable be denied something too precious for him to hold. Martin is… kind. He is kind, and beautiful, and so very, very fragile. As humans are bound to be. It’s better for him – for both of them – to reject Jon, to do so quickly, but kindly. And even the thought of this, of having Martin stand up, leaving him behind as he goes on and lives his life without Jon in it, it hurts. But it’ll hurt more to have his will, to keep Martin close, to love him even, just to hurt him with his own hands and mind. Jon can’t be trusted to keep his knowing to only food preferences, it will expand. It will devour everything in its way and he could never be forgiven if that “everything” was Martin.

“Then he’s an _idiot_!”, Melanie says forcefully, effectively ripping Jon right out of his self-pity.

“He’s not”, Jon says before he even remembers the context.

“I mean it, Jon, if this guy doesn’t want to go out with you because… just because”, she squabbles for words for a moment, “well, because of the package you come with, then who says he wouldn’t have dropped you for something smaller?”

Jon frowns. “He wouldn’t do that. That’s not like him.”

“Well then he’s not going to drop you for this either.”

“But… I mean we’re not talking about something like a jealous ex. I’m quite literally a… a supernatural creature.”

“Yes and he researches those, as far as I know.” Melanie blows a raspberry. “He’s pretty much as deep as it gets already? For humans, at least. Let him figure out if he wants to be an avatar, too.”

“Absolutely not!”

Melanie giggles. “Why? Because then you lose your only reason to not ask him out?”

“This isn’t funny. I… He’s too kind for that. Very much too good to fall into the hands of the Fears.”

“Good”, she says firmly, “because you deserve someone kind. And someone good.”

“I...” Jon can’t answer. The warmth shooting up his face tells him he must be blushing, but he can’t give anything back. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say: Thank you Mel, I’m glad to know you, I will ask Martin out and then be finally happy.” There’s a brief pause before she adds: “And then you say: Next time you and Georgie come over, I’m making those cupcakes you enjoyed so much.”

Jon laughs. He remembers the cupcakes. “I guess I have no choice then.”

“So you’ll ask him out?”

“Maybe. We’ll see. Probably not, but there’s a chance.”

Melanie groans. “You are the worst, Sims.”

Jon tips his imaginary hat. “Only for you.”

“Go read that dumb letter and stop annoying me with your boring love life.”

Right. The letter. He nearly forgot all about it during the long (and emotional) conversation he just had to sit through. And it’s already late afternoon. He really doesn’t have much else left to do, maybe make dinner.

Unfortunately, now that Melanie reminded him of it, the letter is all his brain can focus on. He went so long withholding information from the Eye in favour of feeding it new, interesting things provided by Georgie and Melanie, but now it has enough. Now, it knows there’s nothing new to come, only imaginary scenarios of badly ending dates with Martin. and honestly, that’s not something Jon wants to dwell on, either.

“You’re right”, he says. “I should read it, then send Elias an answer back. Still, thank you for your help.”

“Anytime”, Melanie says. “Just remember those cupcakes.”

And she hangs up before he can get another word in. Classic Melanie.

To his feet, the letter still waits for him to pick it up. Jon does so, ignoring the fluttering feeling in his stomach at the prospect to finally – Finally – find out what Elias’ letter says. He waited for so long, starved himself without meaning to, without realising it. Only now to see how much he wants to Know.

Jon carries the letter and a fresh cup of tea back to his living room, where Martin’s flowers watch him sit down in his armchair. He sets the teacup down, leans back, and starts to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did Elias write? Good question! Answers will come in time =))
> 
> Next up: the new filing system works out, a turn of events, and just being friends is hard


	18. How to ask someone to a date … just as friends of course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just being friends is hard, a turn of events, and the new filing system works out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m running out of ways to thank you for leaving comments and kudos, so here’s just a plain thankyou today!

When Martin comes in to work on Wednesday, Tim throws both his hands up and yells: “Today’s your day, Martin! Go get your man!”

Sasha’s desk is empty, and Sarah tries to hide her laugh in a bunch of forms she’s filling in. So there goes any hope of support from either of those.

“This isn’t funny, Tim”, Martin says as he sinks down into his chair. However, there is no fire behind his words.

“It’s a little funny. A teeny tiny bit.” Tim shows with his thumb and pointer finger how tiny the fun is, he’s trying to convey. There are a good few centimetres between his fingers. “Like this.”

Martin sighs. “Where is Sasha?”

“Oh, she’s in for a statement”, Tim waves his hand like he’s throwing his words away, “but it’s just with your friend Mrs. Willison, so I wouldn’t worry. Anyway…” The glint in Tim’s eyes has Martin worry about all his life choices that led him here. “Did you bring your cheat sheet?”

“I… it’s not as if…”

The answer is: Yes. Yes, he did. Over the last few days, he worked on a… it’s not a speech, definitely not. Just his lines, the things he will say to Jon over lunch today. And if he can’t get the words out, he can just hand his cheat sheet (it’s a small note card actually) over and Jon can read it for himself. The text has been rewritten and corrected so often, Martin knows most of it by heart now.

“It’s not as if I carry it around with me at all times”, he says simply.

Tim just grins. “Except that you do. Come on, Martin, today is your day. There is no way in hell Jon would refuse you. He’s so far gone already.”

“How do you know that? What if you’re wrong?”

“I know it, because I have eyes, I see the way he talks to you and just… looks at you. But he also asks a lot about you. You forget, I’m his absolutely best friend of all.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

Sarah snorts. “Martin, I know we haven’t spent much time with each other, but if it’s any consolation, I think you are a very good catch. And everyone thinking something different, has no idea what they’re missing.”

Tim points. “Exactly.”

“Everyone in this village has way too much interest in my love life.” Martin buries his face in his arms.

“It’s because not much happens here”, Sarah says. “People gossip, because there’s not much else.”

“Well, aside the occasional supernatural encounter”, Tim adds, but then shrugs his words off again. “But half of those don’t end here and the half of the half that does isn’t even legit.”

“If we’re already on the topic of our jobs”, Martin says, glaring at both Tim and Sarah to finally drop it (the blush on his cheeks doesn’t help his case in any way, and Tim just grins wider), “any new leads on the Prentiss case?”

“Nope”, Tim pops the p, “Not my case, I got teeth in apple, and some guy eating his computer. Good luck with your bug lady, though.”

“I have some… uhm… There were a couple of sightings, but…” Sarah frowns down at her papers. “Well, the descriptions are all… similar to the Prentiss case.” She holds up one of her statements. “Skin full of holes, worms squirming from said holes and underneath the still intact skin, smell of decay and rotting flesh, all the same. But they describe a… a man.”

“A man?” Martin holds out his hand and Sarah hands the statement over. “Could she be as… uhm… I mean, decayed enough to be unrecognisable?”

“I don’t think so, actually.”

“Hm…” Martin skims a couple of lines. Real statements have the tendency to draw you in, to wrap sentence after sentence around your neck until you can’t look away, until even thinking about stopping tightens the noose around your neck, cuts of your breathing just for a second, just as a warning, a threat of more violence if you dare walk away from these words. Instead, Martin keeps a careful distance. It’s hard not to get pulled in, there’s a supernatural pull, but he manages, holds on to Tim’s voice, who – even though it’s not his case – finds an interest in this new development.

Indeed, the statement giver describes the same features that define Jane Prentiss, however, the prominent red dress she apparently wears in all other statements, isn’t mentioned at all. Throughout the statement, there are multiple instances where the statement giver uses male pronouns, and Martin has no doubt it’s because of body features they categorise as “male” and not because Jane Prentiss asked them to do so.

“That is weird”, he says.

“Right?” Sarah takes her statements back. “This isn’t the only one. There aren’t many, but it’s more than… well… we have three statements where this is the case. Maybe more we haven’t found yet.”

“Could that be… wait a second.” Tim leans forwards and types search words into their newly organised (still mostly unorganised) system.

“I had…”, he mumbles, his eyes following dates and numbers he clicks through, “a couple of statements I didn’t really know where to put with new categories. It was… They had the same vibes as the Prentiss statements, and stuff about bugs and so on, but they were more about sickness, dirt, something unsanitary.”

“Filth”, Martin says.

“Yes. Some mention the name… uhm John Amherst. He has not exactly a hole-y body full of worms, but he has a… connection.”

Martin frowns. He opens his own program in which he takes inventory of the different statements. The former categories are still there, but the few new ones they already decided on stare back at him from the very top.

Insects and Arachnids  
Isolation (Loneliness)  
Meat (??)  
Death  
Sickness (mould)  
Violence and Pain  
(Confusion)

“I don’t think it’s him”, Sarah says. “The… the worms are very prominent in them. Unless Amherst can switch between sickness and bugs, he has nothing to do with this… new Prentiss.”

“I doubt that”, Tim leans back again. “Don’t have anything else, actually.”

“Okay, maybe it’s not Amherst these people saw”, Martin says, maybe there are more like Jane Prentiss.”

Another one like her sounds… bad. Impossible. How can there be more? Wouldn’t people see them more often if there were more things like Jane?

“Do you think they have anything to do with each other?”, Martin asks. “All three, I mean. Prentiss, the new worm guy, and Amherst?”

“Honestly? No idea. If these worm… bodies… know how to reproduce, that’ll become a huge problem.”

Sarah taps the rubber end of her pencil against her desk. “I don’t like this. Reading them makes me feel itchy all over.” She shivers.

“Maybe they do belong together then? Maybe we got it wrong…” Martin opens the files for _sickness (mould)_ , skimming through the summaries they left behind each statement number.

“They are all… it’s all the fear of sickness. But what does that entail?” Martin buries his head in his hands.

“Why fear?”, Tim asks suddenly. “Jane Prentiss talks about love all the time. Her statement is very fearless.”

“But it always comes back”, Sarah says. “Mrs. Willison always talks about how those witches feed on human fear. Every time I read a statement I _feel_ their fear, I can… I know I cannot run away from it. And in the end, it’s… what saves people is finding comfort again.”

“Or sacrificing others”, Tim adds, “or just punching the things that stalk them. Or killing them.”

“What are you most afraid of, Tim?”, Martin asks. “Is it anything on our list?”

“Uhm…” Tim checks his screen for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I mean, I guess everyone is a little afraid of death? And I don’t enjoy getting hurt or having violence done to me or my family, but I don’t see how this is relevant?”

“But what is it? If there… if there really were “Fears” out there”, he sets quotation marks into the air, “how would they get you?”

“It’s… I mean… it’s probably”, Tim frowns, “it’s losing someone I care about. Without noticing. And without a chance to save them.”

“Like a body snatcher?”, Sarah asks.

_There was an old friend of mine from further down south. We only ever saw each other once or twice a month. Then one day… she disappeared._

Mary Willison’s words come back to Martin’s mind in surprising clarity. The way she spoke, so calmly, but too exhausted to argue anymore. Like she told her story over and over again, just to find herself alone with a stranger everyone expected her to see as a friend.

“Oh shit, Sarah”, Tim pulls a face, “losing someone without even noticing because some random other thing stole their body, wow, that’s even worse actually. Especially if I just… don’t notice.”

_And her parents had a new child, someone with the same name, in the same age, but she looked different. It wasn’t her. Except everyone pretended that it was. For some reason, nobody but me knew this… thing wasn’t her._

“That’s… wait.” Martin skims through the former categories they had. _Bodily transformation (andromorphic)_ fits this the best. “We have statements like that. People meeting people, they formerly knew, but then they… changed. Became the same person, but… completely different? And nobody except for the statement giver seems to notice.”

_The… thing knew that I knew about it. It always smiled when it saw me. I think it found joy in my fear._

“Don’t tell me my worst nightmare could be real.” Tim tries to laugh, but it comes out weakly.

“Maybe”, Martin notes down all the statement numbers fitting that description. “I’ll look into it. How do we call it? As a category, I mean.”

“The fear of…” Sarah taps her pencil again, “the known being ripped from you? Does that count as Violence?”

“I don’t think it’s violent. At least not for those who survive.”

“The unknown then”, Tim says. “You know, because it’s someone you knew, but you don’t anymore?”

“So becoming a stranger, basically.”

“Okay”, Martin writes “Unknown/Stranger” onto his note. “I’ll go through the statements that fit this later. Maybe there waits an epiphany.”

“What’s yours?”, Tim asks him. “Fear, I mean. Something on the list?”

“Uh, yes actually.” And it’s not even the Lonely. What a surprise. “Pain, I guess. Loss and destruction in general. Not only to me, but to everyone I know and love.”

“Well that’s easy to categorise. What’s yours Sarah?”

“Oh that’s easy.” She shivers from the thought alone. “Parasites. Or sickness, something that’s carried from human to human, a lot like the Prentiss case. But… more. Bugs burrowing under skin, but also dangerous fungi and spores in the air. When I was younger I was obsessed with checking everything I ate, and if I had the slightest doubt it went bad, I threw it away. Guess a lot of things went to waste like that, but I couldn’t help myself.”

“Oh man, and didn’t your daughter have that stomach bug a while back?”

Sarah pulls a disgusted face. “Don’t remind me, it was my worst nightmare.”

Very much understandable. If anything dirty or parasitic was her greatest fear, and it actually burrowed inside her – truly a nightmare. How can the Prentiss girl stand all of the squirming and rotting?

“Wait”, Martin says suddenly. “It’s Filth.”

“I… yes?” Sarah looks at him questioningly. “Yes, I suppose it is?”

“No, it is, but”, he takes a deep breath, “We have… Our system counts arachnids and insects as one, and then sickness as another one, but what if it’s actually not about the insects? What if it’s about the decay? The rot, and mould, and just… just Filth.”

“So you think”, Tim says, “Jane Prentiss, John Amherst, and whoever else just made it onto our radar are all… uhm… they all belong to the fear of filth?”

“At least I think so. I could…” _ask Jon about it. Over lunch. Yes, great idea, asking the guy you want to ask out about supernatural disease first._ “I… could look into it some more.”

Martin was worried sick when the supernatural managed to find Jon once. He can’t lead him right into this again, even if he heard something about it. The more you know, the more involved you are. And if nothing else, he will try his very best to keep Jon out of this as long as he can.

“Martin, you don’t have to do Tim’s work”, Sasha calls from the entrance. “Reorganising everything is a team effort.”

Tim pretends to be surprised. “Sasha, I would never make Martin do my work. And Martin would never think to do it, right?” He throws a dirty look in Martin’s direction. “Not even, if I were to give him… say the best chocolate bonbons in town.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

“I’m not doing Tim’s work”, Martin says and holds up his notes. “I just think we could do with some more categories, but before we add something or cut it out, I want to see if we have enough… uhm sightings?”

“Statements”, Sarah says. “I’ll help you with the… uhm unknown slash known people?”

“The Strangers then.”

“Nice name.” Sasha sets a tape recorder and a couple of papers onto her desk. “Give me a list with new categories and fitting statements when you’re done, would you?”

“Sure thing, boss”, Tim salutes her once while still sitting in his chair.

“Not you, Tim.” She hands him her papers and the tape recorder. “Mrs. Willison has some… I don’t know? Leads? It’s not her usual claims, so I guess look into it?”

He takes everything. “Why doesn’t this go to the “witchcraft” guys?”

“Because she claims it’s a transformation. Or rather, an apotheosis.”

“How so?”

“Is it about Jon again?”, Martin asks.

“Surprisingly not”, Sasha finally sits down herself. “It’s apparently about the world. Because everything is about to change, or something. She says – you can listen to the tape, too, if you want to, but she says something about a satanic conglomerate. Like a company meeting but for witches.”

“What, you mean like”, Tim frowns down at the documents he’s holding, “like a ritual?”

Sasha nods. “Pretty much. Says we’re all in danger, that we have to stop them before they can “unmake the world” and “change reality as we know it”. Normal witch stuff, you know? So I’m just hoping you can find something, Tim.”

“Wait, you don’t believe her, Sash, do you?”

“I… don’t know.” Sasha looks around, her brows furrowed, her face determined. “It fits suspiciously well. Martin’s research shows there’s clearly _something_ moving. And right now? I don’t think Mrs. Willison has any information from within the centre, so how big of a coincidence would it be for her to come running right now, talking about a mass of so-called witches, moving towards a common destination, where … something might happen. So, I don’t think I believe her per se, but I do think she might be onto something. And it might actually be something dangerous.”

Tim and Martin share a look, before, from her desk, Sarah pipes up.

“And what if you’re right?”, she asks, her voice a whisper in a storm. “What do we do if there’s… something? Do we call the police? The mayor? What do we do?”

“We can’t call the police.” Tim shakes his head, the smile on his face doesn’t sit right anymore. “Nobody would believe us. And how would we convince them?”

“Easy.” Sasha brings her flat palm down onto her desk. “If there is something brewing, anything harmful, anything… dangerous. Then we stop it.”

Martin finds himself shivering. The world becoming… wrong. A twisted reality that holds no truths and strange creatures lurk behind corners, a world full of horror, a world full of _Fear._ It’s a nightmare that follows you wherever you think to flee to. A nightmare you live in your waking hours and escape from in your sleep, because then – safe and sound, asleep, but always in danger anyway – in your dreams, your nightmares aren’t real. Until you awake the next morning and live them once more. He knows these kinds of nightmares intimately. Knows how they hurt and cling to you and how long it takes to finally – never really – heal from them.

“How?”, Martin asks then.

“We’ll find a way”, Sasha answers immediately. “We have so many statements on these things, we can find a weak point. Somewhere. Somehow, I don’t know. Maybe not rock salt, but something.”

“There’s always a weak point”, Tim says. “It’s fine, I can handle this. I’ll keep you guys updated.”

“Thanks, yes, would be nice to know if the world is about to stop existing, or not. And Martin”, she turns to him, “I know you have your date with Jon today and you want to ask him out and everything, but maybe you can ask if he has any… you know? I’m not superstitious, but if he knows anything that could weaken anything supernatural, he’s welcome to share.”

“I… yes, I can ask him. But, uhm, I can’t promise anything.”

“Yeah, no”, Tim says, “I don’t think you should ask him today, maybe concentrate on your actual plan first, then ask him tomorrow, or Friday, maybe not right before you’re bringing out the big questions.”

“It’s not…”, Martin clears his throat, despite the serious topic, there’s the slightest blush of pink on his cheeks. “It’s not a big deal, really.”

“It is for you, but don’t worry, you got this!” With more force than strictly necessary, Tim shoves his chair away from his desk; he swirls around and gets up in a quick, but very impressive jump. “I’m off investigating the apocalypse.” He shoots finger guns towards the three of them.

As soon as he’s gone, Sasha leans closer to Martin.

“He tried and failed that stunt so many times before he got it right, I have videos of him falling onto his face while trying.” She waves her phone meaningfully.

“Yes, please”, is all Martin has to say for her to open her gallery for said videos.

♣

Martin’s grandmother owned an old book of Grimm’s fairy tales. Growing up, Martin read them over and over again, every time they visited his grandmother, every time the adults wanted their peace while talking, he was allowed to wander upstairs, choose a book, and read it – as long as he was quiet. Alongside fairy tales, he was introduced to a rather big collection of poetry books (many of which he couldn’t save after his grandmother’s death). In his fairy tales, there had to be a good ending. The witch had to be defeated, the princess saved, love has to always win before the curtain falls.

Even with his interest in poetry, Martin never stopped drawing inspiration from fairy tales. People fear the wolf but are relieved when the sheep steps out of the stolen fur. They know to call the sly and crafty foxes, and the wisest owl. He can use them freely, weave them into all his verses and his readers understand what he tries to say.

In reality, outside of book pages, when he talks to people face to face, he cannot lean on his well-used metaphors and similes. He needs to sit down and speak his mind. Nothing short of an impossibility for someone living his life in silence, holding himself back for the benefit of others, and his own safety. Jon’s cottage (or simply _Jon_ himself) is a safe space for him. He can speak up here, can talk about what he loves and enjoys without fear of rejection. Except for today.

Today, he’s sitting at the head of Jon’s dining table, with Jon sat to his right, pushing green beans back and forth with his fork, while trying to concentrate on what Jon is saying. It’s about school, no doubt. And his pupils. Maybe the twins again. Something important, it’s rude not to listen, come on, Martin!

“Martin? Are you alright?”, Jon asks. He’s frowning up at him, even when they’re both sitting, Martin has a few centimetres on him.

“Yes, I’m fine, just… go on, I’m listening.”

Jon’s frown deepens. “I very much doubt that. You didn’t even blink when I told you how the school exploded in a cloud of purple dust.”

“Hm, I wouldn’t… wait, what?” _A what?_

Jon just smiles. “Ah, there you go. Now, tell me what’s bothering you.”

“I- It’s” _you. It’s always you. It’s your smile, and your eyes, the way you scrunch up your nose when you joke, it’s always – every time – you._ “It’s nothing.”

“Martin.” Jon sets down his cutlery. Neither of their plates is empty yet, but Martin has not much of an appetite anyway. This is just like back in school, right before all his exams when he felt nauseous even thinking about food. Or every time he had to talk to Leitner so far. Or every time he sent his CV out with the same old lies on it.

“Jon, it’s, don’t worry about it.” He tries a smile, but it doesn’t sit quite right in the corners of his lips, cuts his cheeks at the edges.

Jon’s shoulders sag down. “Martin, if I… if it’s me, if I did something to upset you, please know that it was never-“

“No!”, he interrupts a little too forcefully. “It’s not that, don’t… Jon, you… it’s… I...” Martin takes a deep, deep breath through his mouth, then lets it out through his nose. This is it. This is the moment of truth, this is the moment he’s been preparing for the entire day.

Jon hasn’t picked up his cutlery again, just sits there, attentively, like a pupil waiting for his teacher to call on him, to explain the mysteries of the universe to him. It’s a funny sight, somewhat twisted in the roles they usually play. This time, Martin smiles. Really smiles, as open and encouraging as he can. Just the smile has the concern melt from Jon’s face. Not entirely, not enough to call him relaxed, but it’s a start.

“It’s… it’s a little about you? But it’s a good about you! I promise!” Martin swallows hard. He has his cheat sheet on him, if this doesn’t work he can just… hand it over. But he knows it by heart anyway.

“Jon, it’s… okay. I know we have known each other only for a couple of months. But”, he takes another deep breath.

_Those months were the most beautiful, the funniest, and most enjoyable months I have had in my life so far. Which is, in no uncertain terms, because of you. You are astounding. You make my days better and Wednesdays are my favourite days, simply because I know I will see you again. And that’s why I would love… I would like to… Could we… Would you… date… we maybe… really nice…_

“Martin?” Jon reaches over to lay his hand over Martin’s, all concern back in his eyes. “Are you sure you’re alright? You... you look a bit… red?”

“Yes!”, Martin says, his voice higher than it has any right to be. “Yes, I just, I wanted to ask you if…”

Jon squeezes his hand, just a little, just to be encouraging, just enough for Martin’s heart to stutter and have his brain stop.

“Do you know any ways to keep the Fears away from people?”, he blurts out and hates himself for speaking the second he’s finished.

“I…” Jon lifts his hand from Martin’s in favour of holding his burned hand instead. “Why?”

As soon as the touch leaves him, Martin misses the warmth, longs to reach over again, to hold his body close. What a perfect timing to talk about his job this is!

“It’s just”, he pushes beans back and forth on his plate again, “Mrs. Willison came in today? And she gave a statement.”

“Is she hurt?”, Jon asks, clearly worried about a woman who has never shown anything more than suspicion for him.

“No, she’s… she’s okay.” He clears his throat. “She just told us about… uhm a witch… conspiracy?”

Jon blinks. “Uhm… okay?”

“Not really a conspiracy, it’s… it’s more of a meeting? Okay, I’m not explaining it well, but she said there’ll be a lot of witches, who will try to… do something. Tim says it sounds like a ritual, I don’t exactly know anything about these things, but… maybe you do? I really don’t want to pull you into this, okay? So you can… you can really just say no and, and I’m never bringing it up again. I really, I worry about you? Because the more you know about these things, the worse it gets and… I’m sorry, I’m rambling on again.”

With his face as red as the beetroots on his plate, Martin stabs his fork through one of them. Jon, at his side, just smiles again. He shakes his head like Martin just said something funny without realising it.

“Martin, really, don’t worry about me. I can deal with… all this weirdness.” Only now, he takes his fork up again. “However, I have to admit, it is rather sweet of you to say that.”

 _I have a lot more to say._ But Martin says nothing else, just chews on his food, very interested in his beans all of a sudden.

“It might be nothing”, he says after a while of Jon waiting for him to continue and Martin trying his hardest to fight his blush down to a more natural skin colour. “Maybe it’s just the general Mrs. Willison case? I really can’t tell how she would have even found out about this… witch company meeting.”

Jon chuckles. “Maybe she talks to spiders.”

“She… what?”

This time it’s Jon’s turn to look embarrassed. It suits him, Martin could get used to this.

“That’s, uhm, I just…”, he stutters. “It’s a proverb.”

“A… proverb?”

“Yes. It’s an… uhm… a Turkish proverb.” Jon looks up at him, very clearly waiting for him to say something against it, daring him to talk back with the same look he shoots his pupils if they try to challenge him on how you subtract three apples from ten.

“Ah, okay, if… if you say so?” Martin’s language competence spans English and Polish, but while he heard Jon speak Turkish before, and he’s pretty sure he could identify the language itself if someone came up and started talking to him, he cannot say more about it than “it sounds pretty”. So yeah, of course. Proverb, sounds legit.

“So, uhm, what… what does it mean?”

“It… it means that… uhm, it loses a lot in the translation, it’s not that… common, actually. Just says… she has… uhm…”, Jon mumbles into his food, positively flustered by now, “information. Beyond the resources… she claims to have. Anyway, it’s not important how she knows about the ritual, it’s just… you asked me how to… to keep the Fears at bay?”

“I… yes, I guess I did.” _And messed up my chance for a normal conversation right there._

“Well, you, you need an anchor. Something that reminds you of your humanity.” Jon clears his throat. “It’s not like movies paint it. If you sprinkle a vampire with water, it’ll just be very annoyed.”

“Isn’t it supposed to be holy water?”

Jon gives him a very, _very_ unimpressed stare. “It doesn’t matter. Vampires just feed. There is nothing romantic to them, nothing desirable, just … violence. Pain for pain’s sake with no direction or reasoning. But I doubt there’ll be any vampires at the ritual. Really don’t think they can be contained like that.”

“Okay? Then… then what can we do?”

“Honestly? Hold on to what you love the most, make sure it’s in reach and you can just… grab it if anything tries to reach out. That’s how you defeat the Lonely. You find something to hold on, something that anchors you and reminds you that… the world isn’t really empty, and people actually love you.” He shrugs. “Vampires, you just kill. Stake right through the heart. Or where the heart is supposed to be, anyway. Just like your scouts do.”

Martin pulls a disgusted face. He’s read more than one statement about things called… vampires. And the ways to deal with them.

“Good to know.” Looking down onto his plate shows him still half of his meal. The words he carefully laid out for his masterplan are jumbled behind his teeth and just saying “Yeah, anyway, I have something for you to read” and hand over his cheat sheet card doesn’t sit right with him either. Another day then, next week, he’ll do it. Next week for sure!

“Thank you”, Martin says. His smile, even though he messed up his initial goal, sits easily on his lips.

Jon returns it softly. By now he practically owns Martin’s heart fulltime.

The supernatural talk has something good to it at least; Jon looks far more relaxed now. With Martin’s (apparent) worries out in the open, he reaches for Martin’s hand again.

“I feel this is as good as any other time to change the topic to something very different”, he says.

All Martin can do is nod. His blush continues to spread; growing slowly, very slowly over his nose and cheeks. Jon’s hand on his is warm. His palm is soft, on his fingers there are a couple of calloused parts from cooking and gardening and writing with chalk the entire morning.

“It’s a rather bold thing to ask, but I hope you can forgive me for both, my boldness and the sudden change.”

“Of course”, Martin says immediately.

“You might change your mind when I’m done.” Jon makes a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a nervous cough. “I am aware of how… wrong my assumptions might be, given we have known each other for a few months only. And if I indeed am wrong, I do hope you won’t see it as an insult, which it is clearly not intended as. But it has come to my attention that I have… I might say… or rather you would say”, he huffs. “This isn’t coming out right.”

“Jon.” Martin rests his other hand on top of Jon’s, bracketing it with the utmost care even if there are no visible injuries on it. Jon lets him, doesn’t even say anything when Martin lifts both their hands off of the table, to hold his hand properly, to feel the weight of his palm and fingers in his. Jon curls his fingers just the slightest bit, and the fingertip of his thumb brushes along Martin’s wrist for a second. The touch sends a shiver down Martin’s back, has him look up to Jon’s eyes that are still trained on their hands. His lips are parted slightly, and Martin longs for nothing more than to reach out with two fingers and tilt Jon’s face up, not forcefully, just a suggestion, just a touch. Just for him to look up, to lean forward, to lean closer even until they can share a breath and then some closer even. But he can’t. That would require him to let go of Jon’s hand and, unless Jon himself tells him to, he will not let go.

“I promise you, I won’t be insulted”, Martin says. His words are heavy in the silence, they linger in the space between them. He smiles, quickly, putting all reassurance he still has in his body into it. When Jon looks up, he smiles, too.

“Martin”, and there it is again, the way he says his name, the way he fits an entire world into six letters. “I would very much enjoy if you’d let me take you out for dinner? Just us.”

Martin breathes out, Jon’s hand still in his. “I’d love that, yes.”

“It’s a date then”, Jon says, a grin on his lips Martin cannot read, he’s too occupied with how loud the blood in his ears sounds, how deeply red his face and entire upper body must be.

“It… yes, it is.” He breathes in, his mouth too dry to say any more.

And Jon, the reason for all unhealthy blood flows in his face, smiles down onto his plate and takes up his fork again. He doesn’t tug on his hand, doesn’t give any indication for Martin to let go just yet. And really, Martin doesn’t want to. He might be red like he has a bad sunburn, but he also very much enjoys the feeling of Jon’s hand in his.

Still, Martin has to let go of his hand at one point, even if it’s just to finish his own meal with his own hands using his fork. However, he isn’t all that disappointed about it.

When Jon pulls his hand back, he smiles at him again. If Martin didn’t know better, he’d call it a shy smile. But he does, of course. So he doesn’t call it anything. Just beautiful, in his own head.

“How does Saturday sound to you?”, Jon asks casually like they’re discussing the weather or another bloody statement and not an actual _date._ Martin is going to go on a _date with Jon._

“Ye-yes. Perfect.” He swallows his forkful of beetroot. “I- how, how about uhm six? Is that too late?”

Jon nods. “I’m free around six.”

“Me too.”

“Perfect.”

“Yes.”

Martin looks up once more, just to see Jon try and supress a dopy grin that’s slowly overtaking his entire face. He can’t see any blushing, but there might as well be with the way he presses the back of his hand to his cheek.

Well, good to know he’s not the only one just slightly affected by what they’re talking about.

The card he wrote for Jon (not exactly to read but as a failsafe) still waits in his pocket for him to draw and read from. Maybe he can tell him about it another time. On their date maybe. Because they now have a date. On Saturday at six. Martin still grins into himself even by the time he finished his plate.

“Thank you”, Martin says when Jon gets up and carries both their plates back into the kitchen. “It was delicious, as always.”

“I’m glad”, Jon calls from where he stands with his back to Martin. From his position, Martin can just so catch a glimpse of the way he ducks his head and smiles when he says it.

“You know”, Jon says carefully, “if you want to, you can stay a little longer. If you want dessert?”

 _Only if it’s you._ Martin bites his lip before he can say something that embarrasses both of them. “Sounds lovely.”

Far more appropriate – and very much worth Jon’s smile.

♣

_The way I fell  
– too deep, too fast –  
into your eyes  
shows me how safe  
Your hands must be  
when holding  
My Heart_

<3

_All my dreams died lonely,  
Until your eyes fell upon them.  
Until your smile shone  
Like moonlight through stained glass  
Pieces.  
Scattered around the graves  
Of who I tried to be.  
Before I learned how to be  
Me._

<3

_I have shown you my demons,  
I have given you time.  
You decided not to believe them,  
You decided to be mine._

Martin stares down onto the pages of his notebook, which are significantly more filled than they were just this morning. He has a date. He has a _date._ An actual, real, not imagined date. With _Jon._ He’s allowed to be giddy, just a bit, just a little, until the inevitable happens and on their date, Jon realises he isn’t actually that interesting and asks him to just stay friends because this isn’t working out. Oh no.

But that part of his story is still three days away. Three days! He has a date this Saturday!

That’s both the best thing to happen to him all year and also the worst. Just three days, how is he going to live his life until Saturday? He needs to decide on what to wear sooner rather than later. But what could he wear? It’s not as if he has any special date attire. Not as if he has anything really fancy for the occasion. But that’s okay. That’s totally okay. It’s not as if he needs a suit for a first date. Oh god, but what if Jon expects him to wear a suit? What if Jon wears one? Oh heavens this is not going to go well! Abort! Abort everything!

If he’s quick, Martin can send his resignation letter to Leitner tonight, then start packing his things into his car tomorrow morning (most of the boxes are still packed anyway, even after living here for nearly half a year) and he’ll be on his way back to London tomorrow evening. There he just changes his name and lies about some other field in his CV and everything is good. That’s the perfect plan!

Martin buries his face in his hands. His cheeks are burning red again, have been since he got home.

This is a terrible plan. The worst. Tim would definitely track him down, and Sasha would be informed about his resignation before he’d made his way to London. And Jon… he can’t just disappoint Jon like that. He can’t let him sit in that fancy restaurant with his fancy clothes and wait for a partner to never come. He deserves so much better.

_It’s the warmth  
That pulls me in  
Your skin  
Your eyes  
Your smile  
Molten sunshine  
Dripping from your lips  
I catch your words in both hands  
And drink my fill on your voice_

As Martin finishes the last word, his phone demands his attention by vibrating violently. Once, twice – Martin picks it up just as the third and fourth messages pour in. They’re all from Tim and Sasha, which is not a surprise given what they talked about this morning, and how their pep talks all consist of telling him he should ask Jon out. Honestly, he feels a little stupid about worrying if Jon would even say yes – now, after Jon was the one asking him out. Hindsight makes a lot of things look very different.

> **Tim:** Martin!  
>  **Tim:** Did u ask him?  
>  **Tim:** Or did u let him read it?
> 
> **Sasha:** Did you ask him about the witch protection
> 
> **Tim:** Sashaaa >:((
> 
> **Martin:** yes I asked about the protection  
>  **Martin:** he said you need an achor  
>  **Martin:** *anchor  
>  **Martin:** something you love that keeps you in this reality
> 
> **Tim:** did u tell him he’s ur anchor???? ;)))
> 
> **Martin:** no

He’s not about to tell them how he thought about it, just for a second, but decided against it immediately after thinking it. He does actually have a small amount of control about what comes out of his mouth.

> **Tim:** oh Martin that flirting 101  
>  **Tim:** but u asked him out right???  
>  **Tim:** right?????
> 
> **Sasha:** What kind of anchor? Does it have to be a person? Or can it be my favourite book for example?
> 
> **Martin:** I think an object that means a lot to you  
>  **Martin:** or reminds you of someone you love
> 
> **Tim:** >:((((
> 
> **Sasha:** ok but how does that keep things like Prentiss away?
> 
> **Tim:** -.-
> 
> **Martin:** I think it doesn’t?  
>  **Martin:** its only for when youre in danger like isolation and nobodys around or in one of those crazy hell mazes?  
>  **Martin:** things like Prentiss you should just punch
> 
> **Tim:** :0
> 
> **Martin:** or do whatever our scouts do with those things
> 
> **Tim:** so fuck them up  
>  **Tim:** got it  
>  **Tim:** believe in the power of love and punches alike
> 
> **Sasha:** anything else?
> 
> **Tim:** yeah did u ask him out?
> 
> **Martin:** no  
>  **Martin:** to both _[draft]_

Martin’s thumb hovers over the “send” button for a moment, grinning like a child with too much sweets for it to eat alone. He can have a little fun before he worries about messing things up. So, he sends the message before Tim can ask again.

> **Martin:** to both
> 
> **Tim:** DDDD:  
>  **Tim:** u didn’t??!!!  
>  **Tim:** Martin!!!
> 
> **Sasha:** thanks anyway  
>  **Sasha:** on a different note:  
>  **Sasha:** why didn’t you??? He would have said yes!
> 
> **Tim:** there’s little time for romance when talking about supernatural death monsters
> 
> **Martin:** I had no chance to  
>  **Martin:** and didn’t find the right moment
> 
> **Tim:** the moment’s never right, you make the moment right yourself
> 
> **Sasha:** that’s very romantic, tim
> 
> **Tim:** I am, first and foremost, a romantic
> 
> **Martin:** thanks  
>  **Martin:** but its okay guys  
>  **Martin:** I don’t have to ask him out anyway

Martin giggles to himself as Tim and Sasha once again try to tell him that he should definitely do that, it’s a great idea. His poems look back at him, expectant. He will find some more prose tonight, some better words to describe Jon’s eyes and his smile and how perfect his hand fits into Martin’s. But for now, he bullies his friends with his good news for a moment.

> **Tim:** Martin martin martin  
>  **Tim:** martin  
>  **Tim:** u do
> 
> **Sasha:** but what if he’s just waiting for you to?  
>  **Sasha:** you don’t know
> 
> **Tim:** yes he’s maybe looking for restaurants to take u to right this sec  
>  **Tim:** u don’t know
> 
> **Martin:** pretty sure he isn’t  
>  **Martin:** also maybe I want our first date to be somewhere else?
> 
> **Tim:** don’t go to the cinema  
>  **Tim:** 1 there r only shit movies right now  
>  **Tim:** 2 that’s a horrible idea
> 
> **Sasha:** what tim said
> 
> **Martin:** I was kidding  
>  **Martin:** were going to a restaurant
> 
> **Tim:** wait  
>  **Tim:** wait the fuck up ure actually going????
> 
> **Sasha:** oh congrats!!!
> 
> **Tim:** u did it??!!!!!  
>  **Tim:** u asked him??
> 
> **Martin:** no
> 
> **Tim:** don’t get my hopes up like that :(((
> 
> **Martin:** he asked me _[draft]_

Martin is grinning like an idiot by now. His fingers itch to send the message. But they’re also itching to write more poetry, to cut into the river of thoughts he has, just to let it drip all onto the pages, stain them black with ink and beautiful words trying their hardest to describe how it feels to fall so hard and still be caught this gently.  
He sends the message, but not before Tim gets another word in.

> **Tim:** u should use the cheat sheet  
>  **Tim:** that’s what it’s for!
> 
> **Martin:** he asked me
> 
> **Tim:** HE WHAT  
>  **Tim:** Yiure shitting me rIGHT  
>  **Tim:** OH FUCK ME HE DID IT  
>  **Tim:** CON FUCKING GRATS HELL YES
> 
> **Sasha:** I told you he’d say yes
> 
> **Martin:** you did
> 
> **Tim:** but listen  
>  **Tim:** Martin martin listen  
>  **Tim:** how did  
>  **Tim:** how did he do it???  
>  **Tim:** just like That  
>  **Tim:** or like staring lovingly into ur eyes  
>  **Tim:** and that  
>  **Tim:** Martin I can see u read my messages

But isn’t that a good question? How did Jon ask him? Slowly, carefully, as if he expected Martin to hate him for it. Beautifully. Full of warmth and so very, very lovely.  


 _I held his hand. I held his hand the entire time, we just… I held his hand!_

> **Martin:** it was very romantic
> 
> **Tim:** so he stared lovingly  
>  **Tim:** got it
> 
> **Sasha:** so you are going out?  
>  **Sasha:** when?
> 
> **Tim:** oh god please tell me u have a day??
> 
> **Martin:** Saturday  
>  **Martin:** I’m shy tim not an idiot
> 
> **Tim:** never said that
> 
> **Sasha:** ignore Tim  
>  **Sasha:** we’re happy for you!  
>  **Sasha:** you deserve this!

Maybe he does. Maybe he deserves the chance to find a fairy tale love in the village’s witch. To hold Jon’s hand again, to lace their fingers together, to feel the smooth and rough patches on both his hands. 

Martin pulls his poetry note book closer again and writes a note to himself before he gets back to Tim and Sasha. Later that evening, when he finds more time to himself, he will write more and more about love and life and luck, but for now he basks in all the opportunities the future might bring, all the dreams that are not yet impossible. And for this moment, that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon gives him tea, Jon asks him out, is that… really Jon at all? (it is, there’s no Stranger-y going on, he just got yelled at enough to give it a shot)
> 
> Next up: worms, new findings, and sneakiness


	19. How to uncover a conspiracy … or something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sneakiness, new findings, and worms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: canon-typical worms, body horror (because worms) if you don't want any of that, stop at the second ♣
> 
> I keep trying to reply to comments but I can't all the time, I'm so sorry guys. But I read all of them! And I'm so super happy that you like this and decide to comment on it! Or leave kudos! Or send me an ask on tumblr! Thanks so much!

The spider is small. One of those spiders that look like a smudge on the wall if they sit perfectly still but move too quickly to catch once they get moving. If undisturbed and with a steady food supply, it will sit and wait and grow. Bigger and bigger until it cannot be mistaken for a smudge anymore, until its steps can be heard crystal clear – one after another, catching on the wall, tapping like impatient fingernails on the paint – echoing through an otherwise silent corridor. A spider like that makes a sound when you kill it. It leaves a stain of red and sill twitching legs.

But the spider is small when Martin finds it. It sits patiently on a box of statements he was just about to search through. In itself, the spider does nothing, just sit on top of the cardboard box and wait for Martin to disturb it enough to scutter away.

“Oh hello”, Martin says when he notices his little guest. “Aren’t you a cute one?”

The spider, who honestly didn’t think of itself as anything else than just a spider and not all that aesthetically pleasing, gives him time to set the box down. It doesn’t move away, simply adjusts itself on the cardboard when the dull thump of its little throne hitting the floor shakes it.

“This is not a good place for a spider”, Martin says, frowning down at it. “If you hide behind a box and we push it back, you might get squashed.”

The spider hadn’t considered this when settling down. It just needed a safe place with food and hiding spaces to survive until it grew big enough it could survive a little squashing. Not too much, but that of cardboard box against cardboard box.

“You know”, Martin says, kneeling in front of the box, “it’s not a good time to be a spider in here. not right now. We’re reorganising everything. And one of the new categories are spiders, just like you.”

He pauses, looks down at the spider and the spider looks up at him. It taps its leg, just one, but it’s just such a small spider, Martin cannot see it.

“You’re actually sitting right on top of the spider statements.”

The spider moves now, forwards, not far, not fast, just a little, just enough that he can see it.

Martin sighs. “But you wouldn’t know that, would you? You’re just a small baby, there’s nothing supernatural to you.”

This time, the spider stops to consider, but there’s not much beyond the need to feed and weave and lead, so it gives up on considering.

“Right then, let’s set you outside before anybody thinks otherwise.”

Carefully, Martin holds out his left hand for the spider to crawl into. It taps his finger for a moment, but he holds it still and waits for it to make the first move. The spider takes its time, sitting there, tapping his skin with small legs that – in the future – will grow big and long and hairy and heave the spider’s body that’ll grow just as much.

“Come on, on our way down, I can tell you what we have so far. Maybe it’ll help me if I”, he chuckles, “talk to spiders.”

The spider doesn’t really understand his joke, but it wouldn’t mind hearing more about what’s going on in general, so after another moment it moves forwards onto Martin’s hand. In his palm, it stops, looking up at him expectantly (not that he sees it).

“Alright then”, he says and gets back up. “Just please don’t jump at me on our way, that would be very rude.”

The spider taps its legs again. Of course that would be rude! Just as rude as if Martin were to randomly drop it, but the spider isn’t about to tell him what’s rude and what isn’t! It has better manners than that.

Martin moves quickly through the corridor and makes his way to the lift.

“Hm”, he says, “hm, no I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

And with that he turns to move down the stairs instead. The stairs are, in contrary to every other part of the centre, dark, cold, and nearly unused. The chance of meeting other people here is very low.

“So”, Martin says as the lights flicker to life, “you came to visit our spider statement section.”

The spider taps again. It cannot do much more, really.

“We don’t really have much about you guys. There are a couple of statements on dangerously big spiders and then some people who get mind controlled by…”, he fixates the spider as if trying to look into its eyes, “by someone I assume is the mysterious Annabelle.”

He huffs, the spider taps.

“Of course she didn’t introduce herself to me, but I don’t like her being so close to Jon. I mean what does she want? Why was she here?”

The spider, even though it’s currently sitting on his palm and can’t do much, sets one of its legs further towards his thumb, to give something resembling comfort. Or just the idea. All while they move step after step lower down the centre’s staircase.

“Anyway, but you probably know that already, you are, after all, a spider.”

The spider nods then, but Martin can’t see it. He concentrates on taking the steps and watching out for the spider not to jump off.

“But to tell you the truth, we don’t have much, yet. There are no statements labelled “ritual” in our boxes. We asked the witchcraft and magic department for some help, but all they tell me is to check out the archives and what they sent down the last week.”

This time, the spider huffs. It’s not a real noise and not a real huff, but the idea was there. And Martin can’t see it anyway.

“It’s… not really helpful, to be honest. We have statements on general apparitions and transformations, nothing on spooky rituals.”

The spider taps its leg again, not so much to comfort, but mostly because there’s nothing else for it to do, and this at least, keeps Martin talking.

“We have… something, I suppose. Something like this. There was apparently a theatre play, or something alike, where an automaton was used to… to dance. And this dance had a lot of people see different apparitions and the world went wrong in different ways, well until someone… someone wheeled in a cannon and just shot the dancer.”

The spider cringes. Brutal. Too brutal for its own little understanding.

“But that’s also something from the archives, we had to order it to be allowed to read it at all. And there’s nothing more recent, I’m afraid.”

The spider taps. They’re now on the first floor, just a little further until they reach the ground floor and Martin will have to cover it and set it outside on the side of the building on a nice little patch of grass. Just a little further, just a little more.

“Well, what we know for sure is: if there will be a ritual, we just need a canon to shoot someone. Amazing. Unless we find a way to stop it before it starts that is. But for that we first have to find out where things happen and when and who does what.” He sighs. “We have nothing. Except for a vague idea of what we’re looking for. Sasha has a plan. She says these… Fears have to interact somehow and if we find the… I don’t know, their messenger? Their messaging system, we can find them, too.”

He frowns down at the spider.

“It’s not you, is it? Who sends evil-mails through your world wide web?”

He giggles, the spider, however, doesn’t understand his joke.

“Whoever it is, or whatever, you should put the centre on the mail list. Just to make sure we find out about your evil meetings and can think of counter measures before you can actually destroy the world. Would be nice.”

The spider taps impatiently. Martin already raised his other hand, to hide it while crossing the entrance hall.

“We’re here now, just be as good as you were the entire time, then I can set you outside and everything is going to be okay.”

The spider doesn’t move. It twitches as Martin puts his other hand on top, then everything around it goes dark. A creak sounds as Martin opens the door with one shoulder and then, in the darkness of his hands, the spider begins to spin.

♣

“I got it!”, Sasha screams.

It’s late afternoon, going on early evening, the sunset in the background would be really pretty, if all three of them weren’t elbow-deep in horrific statements.

“You got what?”, Tim asks from his desk. He borrowed one of Sasha’s bright green hair ties a while ago, which holds his braids back from falling onto the statements.

“Not the ritual, but definitely something.” Sasha waves the statements she worked on as wildly as she can without mixing up the pages.

Martin, who as always sits right next to her, ducks away under her hands. “Something good I presume?”

“Something excellent.” Her eyes shine. “Mary Willison was right.”

There are five full seconds of silence before both Tim and Martin let out a simultaneous: “What?!”

“No, listen, this’ll all make sense in a second.” She grabs a notepad and a pen and starts writing on it. Tim gets up from his chair and crosses over to her desk to follow, while Martin just leans over. “So what we know is there are some supernatural powers, that for some reason manifest as fears people have.”

She writes “Supernatural powers/fears” at the very top.

“These can be tangible in the real world via objects.”

She draws an arrow to the left side of her sheet and writes “supernatural objects” underneath.

“Like books”, Tim says, “or toys or all the stuff in artefact storage.”

“Exactly”, she draws a second arrow to the right this time, “but there are also people that… serve. Let’s call it serving.”

Under the second one she writes “servants”.

“People like Jane Prentiss. They… they somehow absorbed the power these things give them and now they bring fear themselves.”

“So like a demon sugar daddy.”

Martin pulls a face, but Sasha nods.

“Precisely. And that’s what they want”, she draws another arrow from “Servants” downwards, “to generate more fear. How can you make sure more fear enters the world, if you serve a supernatural fear… thing?”

“Oh no”, Martin says, his heart heavy, “by bringing your dumb fear god into this world?”

“Exactly”, Sasha writes “Ascendance” and circles it. “And that’s what this ritual is about. That’s what they’re all about.”

Martin still follows the lines and arrows Sasha drew with his eyes, the worrying lines on his forehead digging themselves deeper and deeper, until Tim’s head snaps up.

“Wait”, he says his voice high, “what do you mean by “they all”? Are there… Are there more?”

More. More than one ritual capable of destroying the world. Martin shivers. This is not what he signed up for when he decided to work here.

“There are… some at least.” Sasha reaches for a stack of statements to Martin’s left. “Most of them are given about the People’s Church of the Divine Host, so I guess they are somehow involved in this. All of them are… dark. Full of shadows. There’s… a statement bragging about something called the Black Sun. About how they created it from a human’s fear of the dark. I really think we should add “Darkness” to our categories.”

“So this…”, Tim takes the statements Sasha hands him, “this is about some random cult trying to… _extinguish the sun_? What the fuck?”

“And they’re all real.”

“So this is them again”, Martin says as he, too, takes a bunch of statements from her, “is that what you think?”

“I… don’t know.” Sasha sighs. “All I know is that the People’s Church has the most mentions to something they actively call a “ritual” and they brag about it a lot. But honestly? I don’t think this is them. They usually have their stuff further… uhm northeast somewhere.”

“So what do we actually have?”, Tim asks.

The silence following his words is answer enough. They have nothing. Or rather, they have a lot, they found new things about these things out there, but they have nothing really tangible. No proof, no ideas where what might happen and how much time they have to find something. Sasha ordered them to find something they love, something they can carry around with themselves, but who knows if it’s enough? Who can say how much they can actually do to… save the world.

“A lot”, Martin says. “We have a lot. But guys, it’s getting late, maybe we should go home and get back to this tomorrow.”

 _Maybe we need a break,_ is what he doesn’t say. _Maybe we need to stop overthinking what we have and what we don’t have. Maybe we’ll be lucky, maybe the world will still be okay tomorrow._

Tim sets his hands down onto his desk that quite literally everything on it shakes. “Better plan. it’s Friday, we’re going out for drinks!”

Sasha and Martin share a look.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea”, Sasha starts. “We still have a lot to do. And the little information we-“

“That’s exactly why we’re going.” While speaking, Tim picks up Sasha’s bag and starts shoving the files and statements in, which Sasha set to the side for later. “These things won’t change if you let them wait until tomorrow morning. Besides, what good would it bring if you ran yourself ragged over these and – even on the off chance you find something, you couldn’t even tell us about it. You can’t work yourself down to the bones, and we’ve already spent a lot of time with these.”

“Tim”, Sasha says and tries to reach for her bag. “What if we don’t have enough time to relax over the weekend? What if we need to work through to find a solution in time?”

“And when exactly is this “in time” going to be?” Tim looks up at Martin for some support or if not to at least convince him to let this go for an evening. Martin, however, just wrings his hands. He really doesn’t know what to say.

“Look, I’m not saying you can’t work through these”, Tim holds up her badly packed bag, “over the weekend, but you need time to eat, time to sleep, hell time to think about literally anything else. We’re stopping for today, we go out for drinks like any other Friday, if the world ends tomorrow at eight – we did what we could, but even working through couldn’t have prevented that. If the world doesn’t end over the weekend, it wouldn’t have ended even with you working through the nights. Please, Sash, just for this evening.”

Sasha still has her arm outstretched, still has her eyes on her bag and the paper Tim stuffed inside. She’s visibly thinking about her next words – or Tim’s words maybe. Some cogs are definitely turning in her head. There is, as always, the press of eyes in the background, something watching, waiting for a decision that will define the future from here onwards.

Martin shivers under the invisible nothing that apparently took interest in this discussion. Sasha’s eyes are trained to the statements in her bag, fixated on them like she might starve if she went too long without reading one, like her life depended on ink lines on paper. The force behind it, the thing that watches every statement, that lingers even when Martin left the centre hours ago, that slowly, oh so slowly, carves out a tiny space for itself in the back of his mind. It _exists_ in this moment, waits for a decision, for something to devour in its prying and _watching._

Then Sasha sighs and lets herself fall back in her chair. “You’re right. Yes, you’re right, Tim.”

And all of a sudden, like the world righted itself with these words, the watching force vanishes. Martin tastes its disappointment in the back of his mind, a failed claim, a trap laid out like the Lonely’s fog, ready for those who are afraid, who shiver under too close examination.

“You’re right, we should get out of here for a while.” Sasha gets up, still reaching out with her hand, but this time Tim lets her grab it. “I… I don’t know what got into me there. Drinks are on me tonight!”

“Ah hell yes!”

Tim and Sasha high five, but Martin sits there for a moment, just staring up at them.

 _Did you feel that?,_ he doesn’t ask. Just nods along, supressing a cold shiver. Turning around, acknowledging these things is what draws you in. All the statement givers who walked away, who watched but pretended they didn’t know anything, all those who looked the other way, they are still alive – at least for long enough to tell the tale. And if nothing else, Martin wants to live long enough to leave this building behind and pretend he’s safe again.

“I’m going to order the most expensive whiskey they have”, Tim says grinning, already on his way out and into the corridor.

“Don’t you dare!”, Sasha calls after him. “Martin? Are you coming?”

“Huh?” He looks up. Coming where again? Outside? Yes! Yes, he’s right there! “Ah! Y-yes, I’m here!”

As quickly as he can, Martin crams all his things into his own bag, purposefully ignores all texts he got – it’s only his dad anyway, nothing too important – and then moves to follow Sasha and Tim as quickly as he can.

“Tim!”, Sasha calls, “Hold the doors!”

“Move you guys!”, Tim calls back.

Martin hurries, but he and Sasha make it to the lift long before the doors close as Tim mercifully held them. Sasha still stares up at him with what must be the best “I’m your boss, don’t pull this shit on me”-stare Martin has ever seen, while Tim just holds eye contact and wiggles his eyebrows. Martin still tries to shake the feeling of the heavy gaze off of his shoulders, when he catches the movement at the end of the corridor. From far off he hears the squeaking of hinges, the echoing laugh of someone unused to vocal cords, and just as the doors close a shadow appears at the very end of the corridor. It’s distorted, lagging behind in its sharp movements. But before Martin can see anything more, the doors close and the lift moves down.

 _Today,_ Martin shakes his head, _is not my day._

Maybe it’ll be his night. That’d be a nice change.

When they reach the entrance hall, they’re the only once here, the receptionist’s desk is empty, nobody waits for them here (not even Michael’s distorted form). The only thing interrupting their way is Tim’s insistence they should all just walk so that they all can get smashed tonight. But he lets himself get pushed towards Sasha’s car with little resistance.

“See you there!”, he calls over his shoulder to Martin as they part ways. Martin waves but doesn’t answer anything. He just fishes out his keys.

This morning – as the morning before – he came earlier to work and managed to secure a place right in front of the entrance. Sasha had already been there when he got here. She was the type of “early” that bordered on “middle of the night” instead of “morning”. Still, if it helps them solve this mystery, Martin won’t complain.

“She’s smart”, says a voice then calling him back to reality.

Martin turns quickly, sharply, his keys outstretched to use them as weapons if needed. What he sees, has him hold his makeshift key weapon even tighter. Michael casually leans against his car, his long, swollen hands crossed in front of his chest multiple times. The twisting and turning of his joints as he taps his fingers makes Martin take a step back. This thing is dangerous.

“I like her”, Michael says, tilting his head slightly and in a too human-like manner.

“What do you want?” Martin tries, he really tries to keep his voice under control, but he just can’t keep every bit of fear, every shiver out of it.

Michael grins. His skin, around the edges of his lips, rips and tears with no blood, and shows off a row of too many, too sharp teeth. His smile goes on, over the limits his face gives, but still the row of teeth goes on and the skin where no skin should be, rips and tears until Michael speaks again.

“I want to give you another warning. Last time, I told you to stay away from the twisted one, but now it seems you’ve decided to go the opposite route. Interesting choice, really.”

Martin swallows hard. Michael’s voice still curls into itself, it echoes in a way no sound can, but it does it anyway. The broken fractures of words pierce the inside of his skull, so many questions Martin has, so many things they need answers to.

“However”, Michael keeps his gaze on him. It’s not as bad as the staring he has to endure whenever he reads a statement. “You seem to have some help on our side. Someone, who wants you to know.”

He chuckles. The sound spirals, blooms like a flower and shatters like one in the embrace of too cold winds. It’s broken, destroyed, not painful, not yet.

“And it is not the Archivist.” Michael hasn’t dropped his grin yet and it is too inhuman, it is too painful to look at. Not a smile anymore, but a predator showing off their teeth, their growl masquerading as a laugh. “And I do not know if I like this interference.”

Martin swallows again. His mouth is too dry, he needs some tea, he needs some words, has to borrow someone else’s voice to speak to this… thing. He needs someone else to be strong in the face of the supernatural, someone else to be strong for him. Martin crumbles under the pressure, feels his edges frail, uncurl, as slowly – oh so slowly – everything he is becomes undone.

Is this what they have their anchors for? Is this what it feels like to be caught in fear that simultaneously is and isn’t yours, imposed on you from outside and swelling in your heart to keep it beating just for long enough to curse whoever torments you like this?

But he doesn’t have his anchor with him! It’s tucked away, safely in the top drawer of his new old desk!

Michael uncurls his arms from one another. “On one hand I’m curious where this will lead. On the other hand, I worry about what happens once you solved all puzzles and riddles they willingly give you. She will not stop. And she will find more and more.”

“Why do you care?”, Martin finally says. His hand grips the car keys tighter, just a little, just to keep himself together until this conversation is over.

Michael looks back at the centre. “I don’t. Not really. Michael does somehow. He wants to know things about the people he knows, he feels somehow connected to you, even though he never met you. And I am as much Michael, and I want what Michael does as much as I am the doors. So, lonely one, I do not care. But Michael does, and Michael wants all of you to stay alive. That’s why I’m warning you.”

When he turns back to Martin, his smile falls, not by much, his teeth still shine, still visible and visibly sharp. But his skin knits itself back together on the edges until it fits his face again.

“Stay away from the Twisted Watcher. No matter where the Mother pulls you, resist it. I suppose the Archivist would enjoy you more if you stayed alive as well. So, do us all a favour and stay that way.”

Martin grinds his teeth together, just to keep himself from whimpering, to make sure he doesn’t break himself apart with his own words. Michael watches him struggle for a moment. His laugh expands Martin’s understanding of sound, and echoes for a long heartbeat, then he hooks one of his long fingers into the handle of Martin’s car door and _pulls._

The door gives in easily. Michael’s form folds into himself, fits himself smaller into the car Martin was about to drive in. The door closes behind him again, locks itself immediately. Afterwards, Martin can’t say with certainty Michael actually used his car door. Or if there had been another door in front or behind or if it had ever been his car to begin with. All he remembers are his words and the sound of his voice, twisted in all the wrong ways, like a limb still moving in the embrace of a broken joint.

♣

The pub is pleasantly warm, the beer still bitter, but Martin needs it after a day like this. Sasha hasn’t touched her glass yet, while Tim’s is already empty. He’s debating on getting a second, Martin sees in the way he stares at the bar. He shouldn’t let him. This isn’t something to get drunk over. Then again, it’s his choice, isn’t it?

“So”, Sasha says into the silence before Tim can make up his mind and decide to drink himself into blissful oblivion. They sit in the ever same booth they sit in every Friday. Sasha to his right, and Tim across from him.

Martin keeps reminding himself over and over again that telling them about Michael and his warning was the right thing to do, it’ll keep all of them safe. Or safer. If there even is something like safety.

“So”, he repeats.

“At least, it wasn’t… actively malicious.”

Tim snorts. “Yes, what a great ally that’s not actively malicious.”

“It’s all we have so far.” Sasha stares into her glass as if the alcohol waiting in it holds the answers they need.

“What if it is evil?”, Tim says, “And just pretends not to be. I mean “don’t trust the twisted watcher” what kind of bullshit cryptic message is that? And who even is that? Leitner?”

He lifts his glass, but realises halfway to his mouth that it’s empty, just to set it back down with an angry thump.

“I don’t think it’s Leitner.” Martin says it just to have something to say. “But I think it has to do with the… the constant watching in the centre.”

Sasha hums in agreement. “And what do we do now?”

“Maybe the statements mention someone like that? If we look through them or more”

“Again?”, Tim cuts in. “We already went through a ton of statements for the spiders and our reorganisation. Looking for another supposedly malicious entity some other supposedly not malicious entity warned us about isn’t really progress.”

“The newer statements then”, Sasha says. “They might hold something. More to the ritual maybe.”

“I don’t think the powers of fear and misfortune would be so kind to send us a letter all like”, Tim pitches his voice higher, “My dearest researchers, we will try to end the world at Sunday twelve am, if you want to stop us, please bring rock salt and some powdered sugar, those are our only weaknesses. Thanks, see you then.”

“It would make things easier.” Only now, Sasha takes a swig from her glass.

Silence follows her words once more. What else was there to say? What else to speculate? They sat around other people’s horrors the entire day, burned through fear and fear and fear like a candle flame through dry paper, all until they found something – anything – that could help them. And what for? What was left at the end of the day? Exhaustion and more questions with even less answers. What will be left once they’re finished? What knowledge will they be left with once they went through all the statements, found all the links between them?

“Damn it!”, Tim says suddenly into the silence. “I wanted to get your out of the office to stop thinking about this and now that’s still all we do! Martin!”

Martin nearly jumps in his seat. “Y-yes?”

“Your date with Jon is tomorrow!”, it sounds like an accusation. “Tell me what you’ll wear!”

“Uhm… Is… Is this really important right now? Aren’t there more important issues to talk about?”

“There sure are. But I refuse to talk about them for the rest of the evening.” Tim gets up with renewed energy to keep his stubborn insistence and moves to grab himself another beer.

Martin just turns to Sasha, who stares up into the air, calculating probabilities, overthinking her decisions and their results until now. Then, very suddenly, she shakes her head.

“Tim’s right. I know he is. It’s just… it doesn’t exactly feel right to let it go already.”

“I-I mean… If… if you think it’s better not to talk about it for a while, then I...” He reaches out for her, his right hand hovers between them for a moment, then he pats her shoulder in what he hopes is an encouraging motion, and not simply awkward. His palm sticks to her blouse for a second, like spider web sticks to skin, but it comes off without any problems. It seems to have the desired effect. Sasha looks up at him and gives him a first, hesitant smile.

“I gladly talk about how much of an anxious wreck I am for my date with Jon”, Martin jokes, “in case the world doesn’t end in the meantime.”

“I really hope it doesn’t come to that.” Sasha doesn’t laugh, but her smile is still there. “Neither does Jon, I hope.”

“Oh maybe the date will end so badly, he wished the world ended.”

Sasha smacks him lightly on his upper arm. He barely feels it. “Stop saying that. You are a good catch. Jon knows that, he likes you.”

“We all do”, Tim says, immediately jumping into the conversation as he arrives with his beer. “What are we talking about?”

“Martin is having second thoughts about Jon.”

“I am not.”

“Ah”, Tim nods as if he knows what’s going on, “like stage fright. Don’t worry, Martin, your performance will be perfect. Dare I say”, he winks, “satisfactory.”

Martin sputters a response before he even thinks of what to say, and all that comes out of his mouth is a long, suffering: “Tim!”

Tim just smirks and drinks his beer. His eyes flicker to Sasha for a moment, checking in, making sure she’s not about to fall back onto the statement track.

“Listen, I have a fantastic idea”, he says. “I’m going kayaking with Danny soon-“

“Given that the world doesn’t end”, Sasha says immediately.

“No, even then. Anyway, what I’m getting at is this”, Tim spreads his fingers in front of him in an all-including gesture around the table, “We should have another field trip together. But something relaxing. Like a team building exercise.”

Sasha snorts. “Because trying to stop the end of the world isn’t team building enough.”

“We don’t even know if that’s an actual thing that’ll happen, we mostly have hypotheses.”

Martin buries his worries in his beer. It’s still horribly bitter, but at least it gives him something to do.

“Maybe we should have stayed and-“

“Martin”, Tim cuts in before Sasha has a chance to finish her sentence. “What are you going to wear to your date, you never answered!”

Next to him, Sasha huffs irritably, but she doesn’t press it.

“I… uhm… I haven’t thought about it yet?”

Which is the single worst lie Martin ever told in his life. He thought about what to wear _a lot._ Should he dress casual and comfortable, or rather sharp and trying to leave an impression? A lot of his time was spent _not_ trying to think about what Jon could be wearing. He looks amazing in his work clothes, and adorable in everything comfortable he wears around the house. If he dared to dress up, turning up in an actual suit or dress, Martin would certainly die spontaneously. Combust the second he sees him.

“You should”, Tim says, very much unaware of Martin’s dilemmas. “Maybe something casual, that shows how little effort you have to put into looking amazing.”

Martin is about to protest, when Tim’s grin widens, and he says: “Nah, that wouldn’t work, you can’t go in your everyday clothes.”

“I know you’re trying to be encouraging, but I have you know that doesn’t work.”

“He hasn’t even tried yet”, Sasha says next to him, her sour mood slowly ebbing away with every second not spend discussing the scheduled apocalypse.

Tim winks. “I have to up my game it seems.”

He does then, keeps compliments flowing that Martin might think he was flirting with him, if he didn’t know better. Sasha butts in sometimes, poking jokes at Tim and his dating advice that basically boils down to “be confident but also be yourself”. A combination Martin isn’t sure he has in himself.

None of them gets drunk, though. An accomplishment that should be celebrated by getting drunk maybe. After the last couple of days it certainly feels like they deserve a break. A break, Martin doubts the world will give them, but Martin can allow himself some hope if he has to search through fear and terror the entire day. He deserves some hope at the end of this.

When the three of them leave the pub, they all breathe a unanimous sigh. As if they could have lost the world over a couple of drinks on a Friday night. Wouldn’t that be the worst thing? To sit and talk with friends, to laugh and enjoy company, to heal from a day, a week, a lifetime of worry, only to be thrown headfirst into a nightmare with no time to prepare. How cruel would it be, to find safety and comfort, to find it nothing but a lie?

Martin breathes in deeply. The night air is cold, prickling in the back of his throat. It doesn’t sooth his lungs, stuffed with used air and the smell of old wood from the pub, just replaces the warmth with the smell of far off rain and something that very simply smells like night. Tim and Sasha do the same, breathing deeply, inhaling the reality around them. Tim stretches, reaches high up with both hands.

“That was nice”, he says. He’s not even tipsy, the two beers stayed the only thing he had tonight. “I think it helped us.”

“It did”, Martin agrees.

Sasha, however, moves a little further from them. She stands on her tiptoes, straining to see something in the distance without having to walk closer. The sidewalk is mostly empty, just the three of them, and a couple of people smoking closer to the pub’s door.

“Something wrong?”, Tim asks when Sasha doesn’t answer.

“I think…” She shakes her head. “No, it can’t be. We… maybe we… but what if…”

“Sasha?” Martin takes a step forward to maybe catch a glimpse of what Sasha is seeing.

Far away, on the street that leads out of the village, the main street here, there is a figure. It looks human, walks on two legs even if it’s a little hunched and its arms don’t swing with the steps, but nonetheless human.

“Who is that?” He’s barely able to see them at all, more a shadow than an actual figure, really.

“Who is what?”, Tim asks as he, too, takes a step forward to see.

“I think”, Sasha says, “it could be… I’m not sure, but it looks like Jane Prentiss.”

“It… it does?”

Martin strains his eyes, stares into the figure’s back until he thinks his eyes must feel like a physical presence, but he can barely discern more than the humanoid walk, let alone any identifiers they have for Jane Prentiss.

“Are you sure?”, Tim asks.

Sasha shakes her head. “No… not really. But I thought just… just when she passed the street lamp, I… I saw her dress. It…” She takes a deep, grounding breath. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not her.”

She looks up at Tim, and Martin finds he does, too. Not for approval, not for a decision, he… he knows what decision will be made. And he’s very much on board with it. He hates it and doesn’t want to, but there is no question as to what will be done tonight and how this will end. The only question is, if Tim will agree or not.

“But”, Sasha continues slowly, “but maybe we should check it out?”

“Maybe we should follow her”, Martin agrees before he can think otherwise.

Tim looks conflicted. He brought them out here to leave the supernatural at work just for one night, and now the supernatural followed them out and it seems like they will follow it, too. Then again, this is the very first lead they have on Prentiss since… forever.

“Tim”, Sasha rests her left hand on his arm. “It’ll be okay.”

The figure moves further and further. They have to decide now, otherwise they lose her – or it – and there is no decision left to make.

Tim shudders, just for a second, for a moment. Then he sighs and nods. “Let’s go. Quickly.”

They hurry along, not quite running, just quick enough not to lose the figure at the horizon. With darkness as their cover and barely anyone else out here, they easily keep up with the figure, creep closer and closer even until they have to fall back a little. They can’t have the thing notice them. Even if it’s not Jane Prentiss, there is something distinctly supernatural about it.

It moves its limbs strangely in uncoordinated movements, but it doesn’t sway, it doesn’t take the careful, but stumbling steps of someone drunk. Instead its steps are secure. It walks steadily towards a clear destination. They just have to follow to find something, something big, they’re sure. A nest maybe. A home. Something that’ll help them figure out their next step.

Sasha leads them forward, way bolder than Martin or even Tim. They stay out of sight, duck into alleyways and behind parked cars and hope nobody sees them creeping and calls the police. Every step brings them further out, further away from the pub and closer to the edge of the village’s last houses. They even pass the old, half-rotted home they investigated just weeks before. The pond lies there, still, reflecting the moonlight like a mirror.

At the very edge of the village, the thing they’re following, stops. And the three of them immediately press themselves behind a parked car in front of the last house, hiding in the deeper shadows. Martin holds his breath, if he could he’d command his heart to stop, to keep as silent as possible, as taunt as rope about to snap.

From their hiding spot, he can see it more clearly now. It is, in fact, Jane Prentiss. There is no doubt anymore. She wears the same red dress all the statements mention. Even through the dark around them, with barely more than moonlight and the last few street lamps, the holes in her body are unmistakeable. Skin like a wasp’s nest, like an ant hill, filled with holes, dug by insects to make themselves at home – to make _her_ a home. Worms squirm over her shoulders and under the strips of skin that are still intact. They fall from her fingertips, crawling through the finger and pushing themselves out from underneath her fingernails. She’s an open wound. An itch scratched too harshly, an itch turned violent, an itch calling for more than even blades to breach skin.

Prentiss just stands there for a moment, waits for something to happen, for a silent voice to reach out to her. Or maybe for her stalkers to give away their position.

The thought makes Martin shiver. Tim grabs his arm as soon as he feels the movement next to him. His hands are painfully tight, his face gives nothing away but the fear of discovery. Sasha holds out one arm, pressing herself against the side of the car, and holding onto Martin’s shoulder as well.

Then, Prentiss turns. And Martin can now see her face, the sunken in cheeks, spiked with smaller holes like freckles of darkness and slithering silver worms poking out from seemingly intact patches of skin. One of her worms curls right around her earlobe like a pearl earring, partly burrowed into the little flesh still left. Empty eyes stare into the street, expectant, waiting for something to move, something to appear.

 _A witch,_ Martin thinks, and for a moment he expects Jon to step into the light of the street lamps, spell book in hand, to… to do what? Fight the monster and free the village?

Prentiss takes a step back into the street again. She’s not coming closer to their hiding place, just standing there. Watching and waiting. For what he cannot tell. Maybe her companion, maybe her master, maybe the end of all things.

When Prentiss smiles, her silver worms writhe in her mouth, drip like saliva from her lips. She licks them up with the pitiful remnants of a tongue long since degraded to worm food, rotting away within her body. The smell of decay, of soil wet with body fluids, taints the air white, as if there are indeed the tiniest spores of mould floating down like the first snowfall in winter. It takes Martin a long moment to swallow the bile back down that threatens to climb up his throat. He has to look away from her, just for a moment, just long enough to control his breathing again, but as he turns his head, he spots him.

On the other end of the road, still a good two houses away, there walks another figure. It’s bigger than Prentiss, Martin can tell even from the distance. But it walks just like her. Steady, determined to reach its destination, but sluggish, without its arms swinging.

Martin doesn’t dare make a sound, he just raises his hand, just a centimetre, two maybe, and taps Tim’s arm with one finger. Tim’s breath hitches for a second, the sound too silent to be noticeable from afar, but it’s a gunshot right next to him. Were it not for Sasha’s hand, he’d jumped out of his skin. Martin nods towards the newcomer, the movement barely visible in the dark, but Tim catches it and slowly, millimetre by millimetre, he turns his head until he, too, sees the other one.

Before he can react, Prentiss speaks – and her voice itches like skin might after finding a nest of crawling silverfish.

“Timothy”, she says. And all at once, the three watchers hold their breath. Their muscles taunt, ready to sprint, ready to jump up and run and run and run until they cannot breathe the mouldy air anymore, and cannot hear the slick, moist sound of worms feeding on long dead flesh.

But they stay. Pressed to the car behind them, like they might want to fuse into it.

The other figure – it’s a man, just as filled with worms, dripping from his arms and hands as he walks – approaches painstakingly slowly. When he speaks, it’s the same sensation of crawling and itching and the desperate need to drag fingernails over already red skin until it rips and bleeds and all that crawls and writhes underneath may spill and press itself out from a tiny scrap in otherwise unblemished skin.

“Did you get an invitation?”, he asks.

Prentiss nods. “Elias would be a fool if he didn’t invite us. We are, after all, deeper in this than he could ever get.”

The man takes another couple of steps forward, only now passing the car. Tim’s grip on Martin’s arm tightens. Just a little, just enough to sting and have him bite his tongue to supress a whimper. Sasha sits on alert, coiled like a spring and ready.

“Should have chosen a different patron”, he says, passing the car, closing in on Prentiss. “He could rise with the Corruption. Even without a title.”

“Any information on what is going to happen?”

Silence follows Prentiss’ words and in the silence every breath echoes like a scream, every heartbeat a drum in Martin’s ears. Sasha straightens up, not quite uncoiling, not yet, but her hand on Martin’s shoulder doesn’t leave.

“I was promised a sacrifice.” The man’s voice dips so low it becomes hard to understand him.

“To the Eye?” Prentiss taps her foot and has more worms curling their way up the seam of her dress. She sounds… impatient. Restless. Martin turns his head again, slowly, slowly, until he can see her again. It makes no sense, but for a moment, the longest second of his life, he would have sworn she was fidgeting. Uncertain of what comes next. Like she came here and can’t quite remember why, except for the obvious reason of waiting for Timothy here.

“To all patrons I hope, I won’t support a ritual that overlooks our Gods for the sake of Elias’.” He says and finally stands just a few metres away from her. The worms inhabiting their bodies squirm towards each other, like friends and family, like they know who the others are.

“A human then?” Prentiss taps her foot again, careful not to squish her worms.

“Maybe some villager.”

“If it’s someone especially important to the Eye, it has to be someone from that Leitner. They know enough stories to cut them open and find some funny things in their heads.”

This time it’s Martin, who grips onto Tim. He swayed, next to him, not much, hardly noticeable, but Martin grips the wrist Tim still has around his arm and steadies him. And even though he never did, even though Tim kept silent, Martin could have sworn he felt the build up of a half suppressed gasp in Tim’s throat, and the insistent tugging on his hand to stop him.

“Don’t think so”, Prentiss says, very much unaware of the watchers nearby. “They’re not important enough for the village itself.”

“Maybe it will be Elias himself.”

“I’d like that. Yes.”

To their feet, the worms crawl towards and over each other, they squirm, desperate reaching for the foot of the hive they escaped from. Or, if it’s a too far way, if their journey may be too exhausting, they squirm towards the other. The bodies filled with worms and decay seem content in their exchange. And the slick sound of the worms’ movements over pavement and other worms does not interrupt their conversation. It sets its tone instead.

“Will there be any others?”, the man asks.

As Prentiss shakes her head, a mass of silver, squirming and writhing, pokes its many heads out from underneath her chin, where the skin was too hollowed out by paths carved from hungry worms to hold itself.

“Just us two, then of course the other avatars from around.”

The man hums. It’s a deep sound, resonating in the night. The dark shies away from it, the worms revel in it, raise their silvery heads to it and shiver as it sounds through their bodies.

“Meet me beforehand? Before it even appears. As a… greeting to the others.” His grin is filled to the brim with worms and a deep sated maliciousness. “Long before midnight. Elias is too dramatic, I have to give him that.”

Prentiss turns, not completely away from him, just enough to indicate she’ll be on her way soon. “I will be seeing you again then. Don’t forget. I’ll wear my best dress.”

“I won’t. I’ll be waiting for you right here.”

Martin’s muscles protest. He needs to stretch his legs, he needs this to be over now. There is a cramp settling into his arm as well and he can’t do anything to stop it. Just sit here, crouch in the shadow of a car, hidden from whatever they are, until the man, too, might decide it’s time to leave. And if that’s until sunrise, if he dares to wander the streets, to search for a victim, he might find three watchers ready, tired, exhausted from the weight of knowledge they decided to seek out even as their discoveries break and break and break their world apart.

“Don’t stand around for an entire week, just come back”, Prentiss says at last before turning entirely and walking, in the same slowly, dragging way, further out of the village.

The man, however, doesn’t follow her. He stands there for a moment, looking after her, the last few worms writhing, squirming in their desperate attempts to reach him, to find safety on his boots as the other hive they belong to has left them here. It doesn’t take him long to gather whatever he needs to move, it couldn’t have been more than two minutes, the worms on the floor nowhere near close enough to find a new home in his destroyed body, reach for him, in an attempt to grab his attention, for him to lean down, scoop them up, and let them burrow into his skin.

He doesn’t. Instead he moves out of the village as well, further to the left, further towards the forest. Despite the squirming evidence on the pavement, he doesn’t leave a trail behind.

Sasha is the first one to stand. Her movement is Martin’s cue to finally let himself fall backwards against the car, and Tim lets go of his arm. There’ll be a bruise there, tomorrow, maybe even tonight already. Martin stretches out his legs burning with muscles locked too long into one position, he flexes his fingers and breathes in deeply.

All taunt ropes ripped, all webs fell apart the moment they let go, the moment everything was over.

“What was that?”, Tim asks. His voice is hoarse from swallowed screams and unnamed horrors.

Martin can’t answer, and had he been in the right mind to string words together coherently, he couldn’t have answered anyway. There are only so many ways you can say “No idea” before you run out of anything else to say.

“That was our most important clue”, Sasha says, always the researcher, always the first one, the curious one.

“What… what does that mean?” Tim breathes the words, doesn’t speak, just breathes and asks questions he doesn’t want answers to.

Martin shakes his head. Everything hurts and burns.

“I… I don’t know that yet.” Sasha leans forward. With her hands massaging her forehead, she braces herself against a wall of information and nothing to filter it.

“We… we should regroup, I… I don’t know what…”

“It’s about the ritual”, Martin says, still on the ground between his two friends. Tim and Sasha look down at him, both holding onto the car by now, just to keep themselves upright.

“It… We were looking for clues for what to do and what would happen and…” He swallows hard. “For… for the ritual and… I think… we might have found it.”

They found it. The ritual that might or might not rewrite reality, unspool the tape that is our world, and record it new for another beginning.

“We found it”, Sasha repeats weakly.

 _Maybe we didn’t,_ Martin doesn’t say. _Maybe we were led to it. Like cattle to the butcher’s axe._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Reasons to save the world, plans to conquer a heart, and theories


	20. How to make plans to save the world ... secretly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theories, plans to conquer a heart, and reasons to save the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to everyone reading this far actually! I know my chapters aren’t always the shortest, so I appreciate people reading through this, I know it’s a lot

_Hello Jon,_

_apologies for foregoing any formal introductions and titles, but I assumed you would simply see them as a cruel mockery the likes of which you have accused me often enough of. I hope you forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so hard for this over the last few years. Too hard to have my plans ruined by you once again._

_I am not mad, Jon. Of course not._

_How could I be mad? When I had you transferred to the main library and then down to its archives, I still thought of you as an insurance. You know how Jonathan, your predecessor, dealt with the supernatural. With a new assistant, someone like you, I thought he might finally start to think his decisions through. Surely, he wouldn’t want your blood on his hands. Forgive me my shallow thinking, but Jon, you were, and still are, a small man, far younger than him, too. Fragile, as humans are bound to be, of course. With someone like you at his side, I was so sure to slow him down, to help him ease into his powers and his role as the Archivist._

_I will admit, I miscalculated a few things. These things being: his recklessness, his assistants, but most importantly you._

_Indulge me, Jon, just for a moment, just for the duration of this letter. Let us make it a statement, one of those that actually mean something in the “big picture”, as Simon likes to call it._

_Statement of Jonah Magnus. Concerning his plans for Jonathan Ardwick, the former Archivist. Statement begins:_

_Jonathan was meant as a test. The first one in a series, I was sure. He came to the library as a delivery man, drove books over from sellers to the library, and in his job, he interacted with a few books of the wrong origin, and – as you might know – came out of his encounter deeply marked by the Flesh. The mark itself was not an interesting one, barely recognisable if you weren’t looking, but the way he dealt with the book was impressive. He tried to burn it, but the blood oozing out of the pages made it nearly impossible (there might have been a Desolation book around capable of burning this, but Jonathan was not in possession of it anyway), he tried to rip out the pages, but they were wet and pliant under his hands and the ever shifting bits of muscle and fat within them made it impossible to grip it right. So he worked with it like it was, indeed, meat, and forced it through a meat grinder. An analytical approach even in moments of great distress is one of the first signs of a predisposition towards the Eye. I have seen many great men rise and fall like this. Knowledge wins over emotions._

_After this little incident I transferred him to the front desk and he was deeply grateful. It was then, when I decided to run a test. The position of Archivist was still taken by that time, but Angus was old and growing older and becoming more of a liability than a help. I had my Eyes out for a few promising candidates, one of them Jonathan Ardwick. Slowly, without him suspecting anything, I slipped him a few of the more dangerous books. One after another, to see if there might be another encounter for him to survive. And let me tell you; he did._

_It was a book drenched in Darkness, but he survived. The book survived, too, if you were wondering._

_The main reason for me to appoint him the new Head Archivist came just a few weeks later. Jonathan scheduled a meeting with me. He brought books and maps and note books, all on different Fears (he did not call them Fears back then, just Things and Powers). Impressive work, even if half of it was rubbish._

_I gave myself intrigued, listened to him talk, to him **obsess.** Over and over, he repeated his ideas, his findings on these books, how we need a researcher team to find out more, and he said, if you allow me to quote him: “I need to know.”_

_He made the decision for me and I agreed to start a “research department”, which was just a small lie. The Archives became his research floor, I gave him assistants, all the time he needed and some more books that wouldn’t kill him immediately, just… help him out. I could have just told him about the Fears, just told him what to do, that as an Archivist he had to sabotage other Fear’s rituals, but he was just so eager. And he was the perfect test object._

_See, Jon, back then I had the wildest ideas. What if none of the rituals we prevented over the hundreds of years would have succeeded? How infinitely small is the chance for some other avatar to be around just as the Vast or the Lonely or the Stranger try their luck with a ritual? And how infinitely smaller is the chance for this to happen every single time over hundreds of years. The answer: impossibly small. Surely possible, but just by chance one of the many rituals attempted in human history had to have succeeded by now._

_It was then when I decided to take a gamble and not lead my Archivist headfirst into rituals and worship, but rather have him discover everything on his own. Have him stumble and get burned. And it was later again, when I decided to mark him and use him as a key, but all that you know already. We don’t need to talk about it._

_Colin and Keara were not the first and not the only assistants Jonathan had. They were simply the ones left when you joined them, Jon. There were others before them and with them. I employed the archive researchers and assistants explicitly to use them as sacrifices or have them get killed in Jonathan’s place. And there were many moments when he could have died._

_Helen was taken by the Spiral during its ritual, she had a burning hate for Jonathan afterwards. And for me. Again, old stories you know by now, Jon._

_Luke was an offering. The Spider – not Annabelle Cane just yet – was… pleased and they let Jonathan go._

_Fiona was a necessity. I couldn’t have her spoil Jonathan’s growth, he was coming along so well. Besides, she is not really dead, I do think the coffin keeps its victims alive too long._

_Andrew was an accident, but nobody remembers him anyway._

_And then, of course, there was you, Jon. You were smart, young, and very suspicious of the Library already. You were supposed to bring Jonathan back to his senses, back onto the way of the Archivist. His obsession with investigating known avatars themselves could get him killed before he had all the needed marks. I suppose his third disappearance was, when the miscalculations I hadn’t noticed before made the equation unsolvable._

_I should not have been as focussed on finding Jonathan as I was. I should have looked after what you and his assistants were doing, but of course, I suppose one of them – either Colin or Keara – would have been at the Archives to derail me at any given point. You three became too good at hiding things from me. And even the other avatars, those thinking themselves stronger than me, even they thought the lingering traces of Archivist powers on you simple remnants of Jonathan’s presence in the Archives._

_And fulfilling a ritual that needs the Archivist, marked with all fourteen fears, with just a simple Avatar and not the Archivist, well… you know what happened to the Archives and the Watcher’s Crown._

_I made mistakes back then. And I would like a chance to iron them out. Unfortunately, I need the Archivist for the ritual to work. I need you. However, I cannot use you the way you are now, Jon. You were not what I wanted, not who I wanted as an Archivist and therefore, I never made any attempts at leading you to the path I needed you on._

_You are not marked enough for what I want you to do. Marked surely, I recall the times Colin asked me again and again if I even cared about your and Keara’s condition after the… Corruption incident. But as Jonathan was already marked by both, the Flesh and the Dark, I never made any attempts at steering him and his assistants towards them. The Lonely and the Buried, both marks I only had a chance with once, were meant for only Jonathan and nobody else, not even his assistants, not even you. And the Slaughter and Vast marked Colin and Keara respectively, while you were dutifully researching in the Archives._

_There is, however, always another way._

_Now. I am aware, you don’t think about this the same way I do. I still hope to see you at the night of the ritual, to shift your perspective a little. So that by the end, you will see things from my point of view – or perhaps see things through my eyes, as one says._

_Statement ends._

♣

It’s Tim who opens when Martin knocks on Sasha’s door. Sasha herself is waiting for them to come into her living room, where she spread out an ungodly amount of statements and colourful notes stuck to some.

“Martin’s here”, Tim says and lets himself fall onto a loveseat to the left.

Sasha’s living room is… messy with statements, but otherwise clean. The small table in front of the couch and between the loveseat and a modern looking armchair is pushed nearly underneath the TV on the wall. Sasha is sitting on the floor, pinning statements to the carpet underneath to make sure they don’t get swept away by whatever breeze she expects here. Even the walls are covered with statements and sticky notes, so much that a small stack of framed photographs tells Martin she doesn’t really live like that just repurposed her entire flat to a case board with red string all over.

“I”, Martin clears his throat, “I brought my notes if… I mean if it’ll help?”

Sasha’s eyes snap up to him and the bundle of papers he’s holding out to her. “Yes! Thank you, I…” She gestures to the papers spread in front of her. “I have some ideas of what happened.”

“I can see that.” He sets the papers down on the couch behind her. “What do you think? I’ll make us three a cup of tea and then, uhm, we can work on this together?”

“Yes!”, comes the muffled confirmation from Tim, who’s trying his best to curl in on himself on the loveseat. Sasha only looks up at him with such open gratitude he doesn’t wait for her to say more, just makes his way back out of the living room.

Sasha’s kitchen is well stocked and free of papers. For about three seconds, Martin worries about poking through her cupboards to find a kettle and some cups, but there is already a kettle on the table and he busies himself with that for a moment.

The cups are easy to find. Some of the cupboards have glass doors (even if they’re not completely clear) so Martin pulls out three cups for them. For the tea, he turns to his bag he left on the kitchen table.

The herb mix Jon gave him always made him feel better, it had something soothing to it. Now, he hopes for it to help them out as well. If nothing else, this tea was given with good intentions, and maybe that’s magic enough.

If nothing else, this is _Jon’s_ tea. That alone has a soothing effect on Martin.

And when he comes back with their tea, the living room is… still messy with papers, but Tim apparently convinced Sasha to clean away enough space for him to put their tea down on the table. It smells of herbs and bone deep warmth. Like the promise of safety a home should give. Safety breached by the things that crawl in darkness and burrow under skin. Martin settles on the floor, next to their tea – a good stretch away from the statements pinned to the carpet. A stretch of safety that cannot protect him.

“So”, Sasha begins, “yesterday happened.”

Tim makes a sound like a supressed snort. He’s still curled up on the loveseat, looking at them, but clearly not wanting to be here.

“It, uhm, gave us a lot of…” Martin doesn’t want to say hints. It’s not quite that, no pointers as to where to look, but entire answers.

Will something happen? – Yes. Where? – At the village border. When? – Next week, around midnight. And what will happen? – A sacrifice of some sort, a _human_ sacrifice.

“It gave us a lot”, he says instead.

Sasha nods. “When I got home, I went through some of the statements I still had here, I really need to do more throughout research at the centre, but with enough … background knowledge, I found some things.”

Some things that apparently took over her entire living room.

“And the things they… they named, the Eye and the Corruption are part of the Fears. We have enough statements about eyes and filth that I’m sure they are something big. However, I cannot find any kind of… ritual for them. They either never tried anything, or nobody survived to tell the tale.”

“O-okay?” It’s not really what Martin would have started with, but yes, the ritual has to be a priority. “It’s… Sasha, I’m a little more worried about them talking about a… a sacrifice? You know? A human sacrifice?”

Sasha sits back a little, staring down at her pinned statements and notes. “Yes, that was pretty… concerning.”

“And”, Tim says suddenly, finally sitting up, “the way they talked about Elias. They couldn’t have meant… Elias Bouchard. Right? He’s weird at the best of times, but he’s not dangerous. He’s not… supernatural.”

Martin wrings his hands. What he heard about Elias and what he saw the few times they met doesn’t necessarily paint a picture of innocence. But of some supernatural entity? Elias? Elias, who followed Jon to Danny’s party just to … to what? Bother him? The way he talked to him, the things he said, how he stressed Jon being _important._ Annabelle said he was after him. She definitely didn’t like him, but Martin can certainly not blame her for that. Elias always seems somehow off. Somehow _wrong._

“What if he is?”, Sasha says, her voice barely louder than a breath.

“What? A witch? A… another… I don’t know… hive?” Tim tries to laugh, but there’s no joy in it, just dry sarcasm, disbelieve that’s caught in his throat, rubbing it raw with every word.

“He’s something”, Martin says. “He’s the head of the Magnus library, there’s no way he isn’t at least in contact with the supernatural. And he… he’s just _wrong._ ”

His eyes are wrong. His eyes are piercing and staring and painful to look into. They linger, his stare still too intense even after he turned away.

“He… is certainly something.”

“And”, Martin takes a deep breath, “and I think I know what he’s planning.”

Sasha immediately looks up to him, her eyes wide, hungry for whatever he has to say. Tim’s protest is barely audible, just another “If it’s really him”, but there’s no heart in it. Nobody here believes in Elias’ innocence.

“A ritual”, Sasha guesses, “and what else? A sacrifice.”

Martin nods. “I think… I’m sure he wants to sacrifice Jon.”

_Jon, I’m giving you two options now. You either cooperate or I will find some other means to bring you back under my control._

Elias voice when he said it, the way he grabbed Jon, a promise of forgotten violence. There had been power behind his words, fear and pain, and _Fear._ His throat fighting against the sound, against every word.

“And”, Martin takes a shaky breath, “and I think Elias is also the Twisted Watcher, Michael talked about. I think… I think he _watches_ the centre.”

The silence that follows is only interrupted by Sasha diving for pen and paper and scribbling down… something. Presumably Martin’s theories.

“It makes sense”, Tim groans, “I hate that it makes sense. It shouldn’t. This is… this is absolutely insane.”

“You knew these things were real”, Sasha says, stopping her writing just for a second.

“I know, yes, of course! But… but it was something far away, okay? It was real, but not an active, an active threat or something! It’s the monster under your bed and the weird person on the street that moves a little too smoothly to be human, but you usually run away from those things. That keeps people alive!”

_I certainly tried. I moved as far away from the Library as I possibly could,_ Jon had said. And Elias had found him anyway.

Martin’s shoulders sag. “It doesn’t work like that, Tim.”

“Why not!”, he snaps, and Martin wants to snap back. He wants to shout, wants to drill it into his head that No. Nobody just walks away from the supernatural, nobody in their right mind lives happily ever after, not when they know of monsters among men, and shadows that move quietly, and blankets that could never ever protect you. And all Martin does is turn to him, his words die on his tongue before he can speak.

Tim is gripping the couch cushion tight enough to have his knuckles stand out. It’s the only thing that keeps him from shaking, from falling apart in this desperate reality he found himself in. His face betrays his voice.

“Why not?”, he repeats. The words softer this time, resigned to the lingering taste of realising how wrong the world is and how little a single person can do to stop it. Why can nothing ever be easy? Why can nobody ever be happy?

“If any of this was easy”, Sasha says, “then we wouldn’t have to read through so many statements. And these Powers wouldn’t exist in the first place.”

Tim doesn’t answer. And Martin finds he has nothing to add to this.

“We should keep watch”, Sasha is done with her scribbling, but still taps her pen against paper. “It’ll happen late next week, I don’t trust these things enough to bet it’s actually going to be Friday, so we should keep watch.”

“Watch?”, Tim repeats. “Where?”

“Where we saw them. Same street, same house number, same time.” She draws another sheet out from under the mass of statements and notes. “We’ll make a schedule. When do we start? Thursday? Tuesday?”

“Uhm… I can, I can do Wednesday”, Martin says, “it’s around the time I go home from Jon’s, so I can just… stop there instead, I guess.”

“What time would that be?”

“Uh… nine, I guess?”

Sasha nods and writes down “Wednesday: Martin; 21:00-00:00”, then moves on. “I can do Thursday, same time. Then Tim, you take Friday. If something happens, anything moves, we give a call to each other and meet a little further down the street, just to be safe.” She hesitates, taps her pen against her cheek for a moment. “Martin… maybe… maybe don’t tell Jon what we’re doing. Or planning to, actually.”

Martin bites his cheek. “But wouldn’t, I mean, if he’s at risk, wouldn’t it be better for him to know about it? He… Elias said Jon was “important for this village” and “connected to it” and whatever else. What if, what if he wants to hurt him? Drip his blood on a stone altar or cut out his tongue and eyes as an offering? What if he’s in danger?”

“If this is about importance for the village, it could also be Mary Willison”, Sasha says, her pen still pressed to her cheek, “and as they said, it could also be someone from “that Leitner”, which is us. We can’t fixate on Jon because he’s your boyfriend. I know this is hard, but as long as we don’t know it’s him, we can’t risk it. If it’s not him, we might miss the opportunity to save… say, Finley MacMillan. He had a brush in with the supernatural not long ago and he was born and raised here, who’s to say it’s not him?”

“I want it on record that I don’t like this”, Martin says, but he doesn’t argue further. Sasha is right. He wants to keep Jon safe, but prioritising his safety over the safety of others just because of his feelings is… exactly what he wants to do. He won’t. He will worry and tell him to watch out for himself, but he won’t tell him. Mainly because Jon, even if Martin loves him dearly, doesn’t seem the most self-preserving person, and would most certainly let himself get captured on purpose if it meant nobody else had to.

“Noted”, Sasha says, but doesn’t note it down.

“Speaking of Jon”, Tim says, “don’t you guys have your date today? Like this Saturday? Today?”

Martin just groans. “Don’t remind me. This is such a mess.”

“You can’t tell him!” Sasha’s pen left blue markings on her skin where she rubbed it over her cheek again and again without realising she was using the wrong end for it.

“I won’t, I won’t, don’t worry.”

“Maybe ask him what we can actually do once we stalked these things and found their secret base.” Tim’s smile doesn’t sit well, a forced joke in an uncomfortable situation, but Martin is glad for it. Sasha, however, looks actually thoughtful.

“That was a joke”, Tim adds as soon as he, too, sees her expression.

“Of course”, Sasha says. “So, what we need are: our anchors, I hope both of you chose one?”

Tim and Martin both nod. He doesn’t have it with him right now, but Martin chose a glass quill. It has never been used, he found it too fragile for his hands and didn’t want to break it, but its existence is what counts. It’s the only present his mother ever made him when he took care of her. It’s his last thing he can hold onto when clinging to the far off fantasy, a distant memory that never happened, of a family that loves and cares for him.

“Then we need weapons. Knives and clubs and whatever we can find.”

“Wait.” Tim holds up one hand. “You want to kill them? Just – silver bullets dunked in holy water and off we go?”

“Holy water doesn’t do anything”, Martin says and Tim glares at him for a moment.

“It’s what our scouts do.” Sasha just hands him a stack of papers, smaller than what she usually carries with her at the centre. “They give some rather jarring details on how to kill… these things.”

Tim doesn’t take them. He pulls a face and leans back again. The tea on the coffee table hasn’t been touched yet, and Martin, just to find a last bit of comfort, reaches for his cup.

“I don’t like this either, Tim. But you want to go on your kayaking tour with Danny, right? I can imagine Martin would like to go on more than just one date with Jon. But if the world ends next Wednesday at midnight, none of that will happen. And there are thousands of people out there, who are getting married and waiting for their diploma, or have a vacation scheduled they are really excited for. What about them?”

“Maybe it’s enough to disrupt it”, Martin mumbles into his tea. Tim hears him anyway.

“Yes, perfect, Martin’s right!” He sits up again. “Disrupt it, have someone trip into their witch brew thing, break the salt circle, just something. If it’s a ritual for some huge god thing it probably takes a while to prepare it, so they can’t start up again the day after.”

“Yes, I suppose that’ll work.” She dives into her papers and statements again. “There are some accounts on stopping rituals, a lot of them are fake, unfortunately, but maybe we can use a few of them anyway? Where did I put them? Ah here!”

Martin sees no difference between the papers Sasha comes up with and the rest that are still all around them.

“Okay, but as I said, some of these things are from fake statements, I just wrote it all out to have a comprehensible list.” She clears her throat. “Abduction of involved witches, adzes or axes depending on who or what you want to hit with it, some alchemical substances, which one is unclear, but if I had to guess, I’d say a metal alloy that wasn’t fit for their ritual…”

♣

It has been a while since Jon went on a date. He can’t say his lifestyle is very conductive for his dating life, but if you’re an avatar of the noisiest of the Fears, finding a partner can be rather hard. Maybe not as hard as dating Desolation or Slaughter avatars, or as painful, but it certainly doesn’t make things easier.

Before the Library he had a short something with Georgie, but nothing really big. They were just better as friends, fit far easier like this. And after the Library, well, now it is rather challenging. It’s not like he specifically looks for someone fitting his patron’s tastes, not like the Lukas family does. Just for someone, who won’t turn from him the second he knows too much, just someone, who knows and doesn’t hate him for it, just for someone, who stays.

It’s a dangerous gamble he took here.

Martin is a good man, truly lovely, but also naïvely human. And Jon is hopeless. He let himself get too close to his warmth, too comfortable in his embrace, just to wake up one morning when it was too late already. That was the most dangerous thing about all of this. Being in love.

If Martin doesn’t want him like he is, if he rejects him in his wholeness, as a servant of fear, feeding on words and secrets and nightmares. Then Jon won’t need an apocalypse to know what the end of the world feels like.

The restaurant they picked is a place with high quality, but still reasonable prices. The only problem is, that it’s one village over and Jon has to take the bus to get there. Which in turn means he arrives around twenty minutes too early. It was either twenty minutes too early or thirty minutes late, and if he had to wait half an hour for Martin (after the time they agreed on) he would be convinced he was stood up. So Jon endures the bus ride with jittering nerves, wringing his hands and picking on the loose threat of his jacket sleeve.

It'll be fine, it’ll be perfectly fine. They have lunch every week together. And this isn’t much worse. It’s still just them eating together, talking about whatever comes up, the background is different, but that’s all. That’s all that Jon needs to lose his nerves.

What should they talk about? Is it good date etiquette to talk about his job? And if not, what else can he talk about? Martin knows what he does in his free time already, they have mutual friends, what do you talk about when you already know the person? Jon can’t just ask him shallow questions like “what do you do?”, he knows he works for Leitner. Oh Lord, he has to make sure he doesn’t compel him, too. This was a mistake, this was a bad idea!

The bus stops and Jon gets off it before he can actually talk himself out of this.

This is fine, this will absolutely be fine. Martin doesn’t seem to mind Jon’s involvement with the supernatural before, he didn’t hate him for it yet, no, he actually worried about him because of it. He worried, he _cared._

Oh but isn’t this exactly the problem? Isn’t this the reason why Jon is now standing in front of an expensive looking restaurant?

Martin cared about him, for him even if he let him. He insisted on making tea for Jon after his brush in with Annabelle. Every time he talks about the statements he works on, he is careful to keep any actual supernatural occurrence out. And if he actually asks about the fears, it’s with barely hidden guilt or actual panic. As if he didn’t actually want to ask about them.

It’s very charming and Jon doesn’t really know what to do about it. He doesn’t want Martin to worry about the Fears, he should live a very Fear-free life, that’s what he deserves. But Jon wants him at his side, wants to drink his tea every day (or make him tea, really there’s barely a difference by now, Martin uses his tea mixes far more often than the store bought brands), he wants a life with him. And a life at Jon’s side is really anything but fear-free.

“Make up your mind, Sims”, he mumbles under his breath. The restaurant is bustling with people. Martin reserved a table here, so he should ask for Blackwood. But… should he? Should he go inside already, or would it be better to wait for Martin outside? It’s not a long wait, less than fifteen minutes until six. But would it be weird to stand outside and wait? Would Martin expect him to go inside?

This exactly is why he doesn’t like going on dates. Social etiquette is not something he’s good at.

Out of habit, he reaches for the side of his skirt to grab onto, but he changed back into a pair of his work trousers before he left the house. Even with his somewhat lower than average perception for what people think of him, he noticed that Martin seems to like his work clothes. He’s certainly gotten a couple of compliments regarding his clothes every time he met him before having a chance to change into something more comfortable. Melanie even theorised that Martin came to pick him up from school just to see him like that, but Jon has his doubts.

With one last, deep breath, Jon takes his steps towards the front door. He’ll wait for Martin inside, that’s just easier for them both. And maybe Jon can order something to drink and have something to do with his hands when Martin arrives. That’s a good plan. He’s got this, he’s got this.

The inside isn’t super fancy, but it has a decent number of couples staring lovingly at each other, and a few groups with fancy outfits eating their six-course-meals.

One of the waiters spots him and makes her way over to him quicker than Jon could move between the tables.

“I’m… uh… here for, table for Blackwood? I assume”, Jon stammers when she asks after his reservation.

“Ah, yes, of course”, she doesn’t even have to check her books, “it’s just over here, if you could follow me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as it clearly wasn’t a question, only polite phrasing.

Jon does follow, but not far, just to the left side, where some bigger tables are just moving onto their main course. Right in the corner, next to a high arching window, stands a table for two. Martin is already waiting there, turning his drink between his fingers. He spots the waiter first, then Jon trailing behind him and immediately jumps up from his chair.

“Jon”, he greets, his voice higher than usual.

“Martin”, Jon says and finds himself relax.

The waiter hands Jon his menu, then makes her way back to wherever she was going when he picked Jon up at the door.

“You’re… uhm… you’re early”, Martin says as he sits back down.

“And you still beat me to it.” Jon takes up his menu to skim through the drinks section first.

“I- yes, I suppose, it’s, I wasn’t sure, you know? Traffic can be… uhm, difficult, around this time.” He’s blushing already, just a light pink dusting on his cheeks. It is, Jon has to admit, very cute.

“I didn’t leave you waiting for too long, did I?”

The last thing Jon wants is to make Martin think he doesn’t want to be here. He does! There’s no other place he’d rather be right now.

“Oh no, it’s fine.” He grabs his glass, shuffles it between his hands, then puts it back again. “How… how was your day?”

Jon hums, still looking through the assortment of beverages and drinks the restaurant offers. “Oh, it was good.”

“Good, that’s good, that’s”, Martin clears his throat, “good.” He sets his hands down next to his plate, then twirls a fork between his fingers, then wrings his hands.

“Martin?” Jon puts his menu down. “Are you…? You… you seem distressed.”

Martin freezes. He looks up without saying anything, then looks down again, then starts turning and turning and turning one of the spoons.

The nervous buzzing of questions, of answers, never given, but known anyway, swells up underneath Jon’s skin. Anticipation gives the air a sour taste. He’s not compelling Martin. He is _not._ But there is a secret, something unknown, between them. Something Martin doesn’t want to share. And the Beholding, of course, wants it more desperately just because it’s not meant to be given freely.

“You don’t have to tell me”, Jon says. His mouth is dry, his tongue sticks to his teeth when he speaks. Those are the wrong words, the wrong things. No, Martin has to tell him. Otherwise he might go crazy. Or he might just… know it without his consent. Better to have him say it, to give it up believing it was his own free choice.

“I want to”, Martin answers and the part of Jon that still hungers for what it’s not allowed to know cries with supressed joy.

“Okay?” Jon swallows down all that is not his desire, all that pushes forward from the very back of his mind.

“It’s just…” Martin looks around, holding his words in for a second in case their waiter comes back. “It’s a little hard to believe.”

He wants to, but he just can’t stop his short laugh. Martin is sitting here with a monster, has dinner with an Avatar of Beholding. What could possibly be harder to believe?

“Oh Martin”, he says, and just can’t keep himself from reaching out for his hand. It had felt so good when their hands found each other on Wednesday, when all Jon wanted was to never let go, to keep holding onto Martin’s hand like it was his lifeline, his only tether to reality. There is nothing he wants more than to feel the warmth of Martin’s body close again.

Martin lets him eagerly. His hand closes around Jon’s before he even crossed the table into Martin’s space. And just like that, in this second, everything is alright.

“I worry”, Martin says. His eyes shine. They are beautiful, light brown like a glint of light illuminating smooth bronze.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” With his thumb Jon traces Martin’s knuckles. Slowly, savouring the feeling. He wants to trace Martin’s hand in its entirety, wants to follow the lines in his palm and have his fingers slot between his so perfectly like they are puzzle pieces.

“There always is”, Martin sighs. But he smiles. Still nervous, fidgety, but at least he’s smiling. “Now, do you know what you want to order?”

_What?_ Jon can’t stop himself from frowning down at his menu, lying useless over his table setting. “Oh! Yes, give me a second!”

Heat blooms in his cheeks like his roses after the first really warm nights of the year. Reluctantly he lets go of Martin’s hand to actually pick his menu back up.

“Did you”, he clears his throat, “Did you already decide on something?”

Static crackles between them.

“Oh, I was thinking about the lasagne, but I doubt it’ll be as good as yours, so I’m probably going with the gratin. It has spinach in it, and I love it when you make spinach, so safe to assume it’ll be good, right?”

Martin blinks, then frowns.

_Oh. Oh no._ Jon can’t do more than stare. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid. Compelling someone on a first date is definitely bad date etiquette.

“Martin, I…” Jon swallows thickly, wishing for a glass of water to wash is words away. “I am so sorry.”

“What? No, no! Jon don’t be!” He waves his hands in front of him. “It’s okay, you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Just… uhm, w-would you like a glass of water? That’d be nice, right? Let me just…” Martin flags down a waiter and orders a tall bottle of water for both of them.

Jon, meanwhile, takes a deep, grounding breath. He knew this might happen. He knew this was a dangerous idea. But at least it happened now, with such an unimportant question, something small. He can keep himself in check, he knows he can.

“Are you okay?”, Martin asks as soon as the waiter disappears again.

“Yes.” _I will be._ “Yes, I am quite alright.” _Just don’t ask any more questions._

Martin doesn’t look convinced, but Jon gives him a reassuring smile and holds up his menu.

“I think, I might try the penne with salmon and rucola. What… uhm You found something, too, I suppose.”

“Yes, I… yes.” Jon is very much aware that Martin both wants him to tell him what’s wrong, but also wants him to have his privacy if he’s not comfortable with sharing this. It’s not a good feeling. “I’ll take the gratin. And if it’s bad I can just steal your salmon.”

Jon’s head snaps up and he catches the mischievous glint in Martin’s eyes.

“Don’t you dare.” This time, his smile sits easier on his lips.

When their waiter comes back with the water, they order their food and decline the offer for wine that goes well with their dishes. It doesn’t take long for Martin to smile back at Jon, not shy anymore, just a bright smile, radiating a sort of nervous content.

Talking about your work is, apparently, not a date taboo Jon didn’t know about. So he’s very glad when Martin asks about the Brown twins again and Jon tells him about the progress they made with a few adjustments to their schedule and some serious parent-teacher-conferences with their parents. That’s one of the most important parts of his job, to show it isn’t just about the child, but the parents have to do their part, too.

He’s in the middle of a rant about how teaching methods changed over the years and how they still have a long way to go, when he notices Martin just stopped eating. Their food came a while ago, and while Martin’s plate is significantly emptier than Jon’s (happens when you talk more than you eat), it is not entirely empty. Still, he hasn’t eaten anything for a long moment, his fork is still in his hand.

Jon frowns. “Martin? Is… is it not… I, if you don’t like your food, we can swap, it’s okay.”

“Oh. No, no, that’s not it!” The blush that settled onto Martin’s cheeks when Jon arrived and has since then stubbornly refused to leave, deepens ever so slightly. Jon desperately wants to cup his face in both hands and feel its warmth underneath his skin. If he did this? Would Martin blush even darker? Does is blush spread all over his chest, too?

“What… I mean”, Jon clears his throat. “If something’s the matter, you can tell me.”

He offers his left hand he’s not holding his fork with. Palm up, to give Martin enough space to decide on his own, if he wants to reach out, but still close to him that he understands Jon wants this. And Martin takes his hand. He not only lays his palm into Jon’s, he curls his fingers around the back of his hand, holding it loosely enough for Jon to pull away, but still tight enough for Jon to feel the pressure.

“I was just”, Martin looks up at him, and Jon realises for the first time this evening, that Martin has yet to look away from him. It’s not the invasive staring of the Eye, so far from it. Martin’s eyes gleam. He looks at Jon, really looks at him, and it’s like being seen after a lifetime of being invisible, like a touch too careful, too cautious to do any harm, it’s like being known for all flaws and scars and terrible decisions and being loved, not despite, not regardless, but because of them.

“I was just a little distracted”, Martin says and squeezes Jon’s hand. His blush is deep and beautiful and climbs even further when he continues: “You look… when you talk about teaching, or your flowers, or anything you are really passionate about, it’s just… just unfairly adorable.”

“Ah”, Jon says. All words are lost to him, nothing else has meaning but the warmth of Martin’s hand and the brightness of his eyes and the soft blush Jon can feel creeping up his own face. There’s a protest, something to prove Martin wrong, waiting deep in his chest, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he presses his right hand to his cheek. For a moment, he looks away from Martin’s face, just to remind himself they’re not alone here, there are other people around.

“I… M-maybe”, Jon looks back at him again, “maybe I should leave then, just to make sure you can, uhm, enjoy your food without any distractions.”

It’s a joke, of course it’s a joke, oh Jon hopes desperately that Martin can see it for the joke it’s meant to be. Martin squeezes his hand slightly.

“I can eat with you here.” To prove his point he picks up his fork with his left hand, his right stays there, intertwined with Jon’s. “See?”

Jon smiles. He doesn’t even try to fight it down, just lets it take over his lips and cheeks and eyes.

“How was… uhm”, he clears his throat, “I would like to hear how your day went.”

“Mh”, Martin says with his fork half ways to his mouth. “It’s uhm… I was nervous, actually. For tonight, I…”, he chuckles, “didn’t know what to wear, my Dad tried to give me some advice, but…”

From the face Martin makes, Jon can guess easily this “advice” wasn’t very helpful at all.

“And then, I… you know? Went all casual.” He nods, not at all casually.

Jon hadn’t really noticed Martin’s clothing all that much. He looks good, handsome, but he looks like that in almost everything. For tonight he picked out a nice shirt with no wrinkles or creases at all, and a dark blazer. It does look a little fancier than the jumpers Jon has seen him in so far.

“It suits you. I think you chose well.” Jon says it with no hesitation and it takes Martin nearly choking on the bite he was just chewing, for him to realize that… well, that’s not a real compliment, is it? He should have called him “handsome” or “striking”, that’s how you compliment people!

But he can still save this! Surely.

“Than-thank you”, Martin says, his smile shy, his blush ever so deeper.

“Of course”, Jon continues, “you are a rather handsome man in your everyday clothes as well.”

There. _That’s_ a compliment.

Martin ducks his head, lowering his eyes back to his food. “You… thank you. I… uhm, you- you think so?”

“Absolutely.” Jon has eyes, more than two, actually. How could he see Martin and not come to this very obvious conclusion? It might not be his looks why he asked him out, but they are certainly not a reason to _not_ do so.

Which is surely not what someone wants to hear on a date, so not exactly something Jon should tell him now.

Martin chuckles. “Tim actually tried to talk me into a flannel shirt. I don’t know what he thought, but apparently”, his imitation of Tim’s voice is better than Sasha’s, but still not good, “Flannel is always appropriate!”

Jon laughs with him, his smile widens and his laugh bubbles up in his chest and Martin’s hand fits in his perfectly. Martin still grins, when Jon points to his front teeth, still smiling, he’s smiling so much these days.

“You have spinach stuck there.”

♣

Martin’s car is warm and safe and smells faintly of artificial vanilla. The world is dark around them, only illuminated by the moon and the stars above them. There are no streetlamps leading the way to Jon’s cottage, nothing to guide the way except for well known paths.

Jon really doesn’t want to get out of the car and cross his garden back home. And Martin seems to have the same idea, or the same unwillingness to let him go. They have been sitting here right in front of the garden gate for minutes, half an hour maybe even. Still talking, there seems to be always something more to talk about, something more to say.

But Jon knows he has to leave at one point. There is something tugging in the back of his mind, something that wants him home, that expects him back.

It’s when they fall silent for a second that Martin reaches over for his hand again. Jon lets him, very willing to feel Martin’s touch again.

“Jon, I... I want you to be careful.”

Jon brings his other hand up as well, traps Martin’s between them. “Of course. The way isn’t that far actually, I don’t think there will be anything dangerous waiting for me in my own garden.”

He means it as a joke, but Martin doesn’t take it that way. He, too, brings his hand up, holds both of Jon’s, palms up like he wants to hear an oath from him.

“All the time. You should be careful all the time. You should be _safe_ all the time. I worry about you so much. Just make sure you’re safe. Okay? Tonight and tomorrow night and the night after, and the entire next week. Yes? For me?”

“I… Martin, is something… are you…” Jon can’t think of a way to tell him next week especially might be a dangerous week. Elias’ ritual will happen next week, more and more Avatars from all around the world will come and maybe want to find victims in the villages around. He can’t even be sure he’ll make it for his and Martin’s Wednesday lunch in case Oliver calls an “oh no all those dumbasses are here now and think I know what’s going on for some reason Jon please help me out here”-meeting.

“Jon, I”, Martin takes a deep breath, “I need you to be safe. Okay? I just need you to.”

“I…” There’s a warm feeling in his stomach, slow burning embers that sat there for the entire evening, kindling with new energy. “I promise you, I’ll look after myself.”

“Good, that’s… that’s good.” Martin looks like he wants to say something more, but he doesn’t. Just sits there, with Jon’s hands in his. Jon wants to stay, he wants to invite Martin in, he wants to tell him to stay, just for a while, for a little longer, forever.

“I should go then”, he says instead. Very much aware of how little he wants to move from his spot.

“It- Yes, it’s getting late.” Martin lets go of his hands, but Jon doesn’t move away just yet.

“I really enjoyed today, we – I would love to… to do this again.”

“Yes. Yes! Of course!” Martin smiles one last time, but the insistent tugging in the back of Jon’s mind doesn’t let him appreciate it before he gets out of the car.

“Text me when you get home”, he says at last, then closes the car door again and turns to his own home.

It lies there just as dark and still as Jon left it. The gate is closed, the path well treaded, and his plants expect some water, even if there won’t be any until tomorrow when he waters them. Martin doesn’t drive away immediately, he waits in his car for Jon to reach his porch, when he can’t see him anymore. Then the engine stutters to life and he makes his own way home.

Such a gentleman.

Jon’s smile lasts for half a second before the air turns. The sound of the awakened engine was enough to make something stir. Underneath the stillness around him, waits more than just darkness. The air is heavy with the breath of a thousand unknown victims, of their burning muscles, their pain of running and running and running away on sprained ankles and bleeding wounds.

Someone – something – went out to hunt and it found a place to rest in Jon’s cottage. A place to wait, not to hunt, but to slay.

Someone – something – waits inside, heard the engine spring to life, surely smelling Jon through the walls, recognising him as the one living here.

Someone – something – is ready. Jon can feel it as if his own muscles were locked in place, ready to jump, to tear and rip apart any intruder that might find their way into waiting claws and sharp teeth.

With a sigh as deep as the darkness around him, Jon moves forward and unlocks his front door. The faint smell of blood lingers in the back of his throat. He pushes the door open.

Two eyes stare at him through the broken darkness. They gleam bloody red for a moment, then dim, clog up like blood until they are barely shining anymore. It takes Jon some fumbling until he finds the light switch and the cottage is flooded in the dull yellow light of electric light bulbs.

“You were out”, Daisy says without getting up from his couch.

“And that gives you the right to break into my house?”

“Technically it’s my house.”

Jon steps out of his shoes and only now makes his way over to her. “What are you doing here?”

She was out hunting, he can tell. Dirt and sweat stain her shirt, her boots stand at the door, but they are muddy, whereas her duffle bag, that found a place on the floor next to her, is perfectly clean. She didn’t kill, she tries not to, feeds the hunt only her chase, but never her kill. It’s a precarious balancing act.

“Technically I should pay rent then.” He lets himself fall into the cushions next to her.

“You do, you make me food when I come over.” Daisy rests her feet in his lap and it’s disgusting, she smells like wet dog.

“And you are here right now because…?” He’s not complaining, he likes having her over.

Instead of an answer, Daisy pushes herself up on her elbows and gives him a look. The kind of that means he’s asking dumb questions again. She nods towards the knee high table in front of them, where – completely inconspicuous – there lies a letter. And Jon very much knows what letter it is.

“Ah”, he says, “The ritual.”

“Yes, someone has to make sure you don’t get killed.”

“Well it’s not as if”, he starts, but Daisy interrupts him before he can protest any further.

“I read it, your letter. Really don’t like the implications in there. Really, really don’t. And I also don’t like you going there at all, but if I could just make you do as I wish, we wouldn’t be here now, would we?”

“Probably not, but you’re not the type for a spider.”

“Jon”, Daisy groans. It melts into a growl at the end, but some lingering effects after hunting are to be expected.

“Yes, yes, yes, you’re right, sorry.” He just waves his hand carelessly. “What do you think about it?”

Daisy shrugs. “Not much. Seems to have a plan, but if he counts on you helping him with it, y’know, to see things eye to eye with him, I don’t think we need to worry.”

“I’ll keep my eyes on him, it should be enough.”

“Nah, it’s alright.” She lets herself fall back onto the couch. “Just keep your eyes to yourself, that should give him a false sense of safety and he can be _really_ surprised when someone punches him in the face really hard.”

Jon nods. “He has a rather punchable face.”

Daisy makes a noise of agreement. “Your letter”, she says, “has way more gloating than the one I received. Or Georgie for all I know.”

“Yes, well”, he shrugs, “he doesn’t get to monologue all that often. And what happened in the Archives is the only important thing he did since 1818.”

Daisy scoffs. “What happened in 1818?”

“Nearly killed himself with one of his dumb books.” He shrugs. “Also founded the Library.”

“Huh.”

Jon pushes himself up and stretches his arms over his head. “It’s not that late yet, do you want a cup of tea? Something to eat? I baked bread on Thursday.”

“Sure. Oh Jon? Hand me that letter, will you?”

He picks up the letter that lay in a very reachable position for her. She’d just had to stretch her arm. “There you go, what do you want with it?”

“Burn it.” With the letter in one hand, and an old zippo lighter in the other, she gets up and makes her way over to the front door.

The Eye protests. It wants for Jon to run after her, to stop her, to rip the letter out of her hand and throw the lighter away. She can’t just destroy knowledge. He can’t _let_ her destroy it. It’s his duty to protect it. He cannot let her get away with it.

But he does. And it hurts, it _hurts_ to watch knowledge burn, to know it’s destroyed, to lose it. On the other hand, the Eye _knows_ what it says. It’ll never let him forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My extensive knowledge of what fancy restaurants serve is very, very limited. Salmon is fancy right? Right? Also wine? I have no idea, I wrote this while eating microwaved Chinese takeout. By now, my search history is just different versions of “fancy restaurant menu”, “expensive food”, “please stop telling me everything is more expensive with gold on it”, and “no caviar”.
> 
> Next up: Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies.


	21. How to pull off a successful ritual … or whatever the hell that was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW:  
> \- Lonely typical depression until the first ♣  
> \- flesh related body horror, it's bracketed with the word "Unfinished", so if you want to skip it, just stop at the first "unfinished" and continue at the second  
> \- Spiders and Worms only feature briefly  
> \- mention of blood
> 
> This chapter is like 90% at fault for my “everybody is competent except Elias” tag, so don’t worry

Jon has never known a home.

He supposes he had one with his parents, when he was small enough to fit into their arms and every touch he reached for was met with an even softer hand reaching back. Before life decided to meddle and he was put down and never picked up again. Before he forgot what unconditional love felt like. His grandma tried. She didn’t manage, but she tried. Her touches never hurt, but they lacked any warmth, left him cold and shivering in a world too big for him to comprehend. His searching hands were met with an empty mourning for a face he didn’t remember, a son he couldn’t replace. She cared for him. She just never loved him. And while she certainly housed him for long enough, nothing – neither her creaking front door, nor the tap in the kitchen that always ran a little longer even after closing it, or her guest room converted to his bedroom – ever made her house a home to him. It was a shelter, but never a safe place. The warmth in there came from central heating, but never an embrace.

As Jon takes his first step into the Lukas’ mansion, he is violently reminded of his grandmother’s house. The Lonely around him seeps into his clothes until it reaches his skin and forces his loneliest memories to the surface, tugging and pulling.

The fog he saved Martin from smelled vaguely like the sea, like a beach holiday in a far away past, buried under life, less a memory than a happy fantasy tinged with grief. This fog now smells of a warm meal taken with his family, of the detergent his grandma used for his clothes, of the loneliest childhood he didn’t wish for anybody else.

Jon has never known a home. While he had a place to stay, and a shelter from the world, he missed out on a home that kept him save, a home that dried tears and stuck band-aids over cuts that could heal without, a home were tears washed away the sadness and didn’t just amplify it. His tears only ever watered the flowers on graves.

This, the Lukas mansion, is not a home. It pretends to be one. Wears a coat of thick carpets and family portraits hung between tapestries. The mask is crooked. All portraits are of lonely people, lining the walls like an audience, a mockery of how bustling with life this mansion could be, as opposed to how silent it actually is. How dead. How lonely.

The Eye that watches over him does not like the Lonely. It thrives in masses, in groups, where one person might give the needed scandalous comment to push all the others over the edge to let their own secrets slip. It doesn’t hate empty spaces, doesn’t detest the statements the Lonely victims give. But it doesn’t understand it as it doesn’t understand so many things. So it longs to _see_.

Outside the mansion, the subtle rain murmurs in a thousand voices, whispers a million secrets all at once, as something – the single drop of fixture that is Jon – focusses on them for the first time in hundreds of years. And the Eye tells him each and every single name, each and every single voice that has no sound anymore and has no hope and no body and no fear left inside their broken minds the dozens of Lukas offsprings fed from.

Ana Peterson. And Luis Nicolas. And Francis Hollein. And Jay Newstone. And Susanne Meyers. And a thousand, thousand more victims, who were left behind, were forgotten and lost their way; people who forgot how voices sound and what a touch feels like. A thousand, thousand minds that lost their grip on themselves until they gave up their wandering, their calling for help, their erratic pacing.

They call out in unison. Once more. Just to wait for an answer – and receive nothing but their echo.

The Lonely is never about the absence itself. But about the knowledge that there are other people around. In theory. The knowledge that they could save you from this emptiness. But none of them care enough to do it. In many ways, it is about reaching out – as all the Fears are – and finding nothing but cool fog freezing tears to already raw cheeks. The fog builds crystalline masks from condensing breaths and throats raw and bloody from cries for help nobody can hear.

Jon has just about enough time to see the Stranger’s anonymity in the mass of victims stripped bare of the need for human contact.

“Oh, you brought your guard dog.”

Elias’ voice silences all the nameless faces and voiceless screams. Next to Jon, Daisy growls.

“You insisted on talking in your territory”, Jon says, “I thought it might be best to make sure you were not up to anything nefarious.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.” He taps his cane, but the sound is muffled by the thick carpet that swallows noise a little too quickly.

The entrance hall makes for a grand, well, entrance. And Elias is, indeed, an imposing figure. The sharp suit, the upright posture with both his hands on his cane, and his immaculate hair, it all fits into the narration he’s creating. Jon and Daisy stepped into a room big enough to fit their cottage into twice, lonely portraits hang on each side beginning right behind wide staircases that lead upwards in a slight twist. The glass windows in the upper half of the hall have grisaille panels filtering the yellow out of any light, colouring it in scales of grey.

“Do try not to drip mud everywhere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it”, Daisy says and shuffles her muddy boots on the expensive carpet to rid them of the worst dirt. She keeps eye contact with Elias, watching closely as his face twists for the briefest of moments.

He cares more about his carpet than about his employees.

“Follow me?” He doesn’t wait for an answer – or even an agreement, just turns and starts walking down over the carpet in a rough red, perched on the tiles leading deeper into the house’s throat and the grasps of the Lonely.

Jon follows, Daisy hesitates, but only for a second, then she’s at his side again. Elias doesn’t turn around, of course he doesn’t have to, the Eye would tell him if Jon was to stop walking. And while Elias has always valued written knowledge over simple secrets, Jon’s aspect is focussed on finding what was never written, what was never meant to be found out. Elias has his attention until he finally reveals his plan.

The need to know, the hunger for secrets, is hard to satisfy safely. And Jon is well aware it could be his downfall one day. But today he’s not alone.

Daisy scoffs as Elias leads them through to the estate’s library. It’s not as well stocked as the Magnus Library, but there’s a decent amount of knowledge in here. Enough to fuel the Eye for a couple of days maybe.

“Pretty”, Jon says as they enter, “are you redecorating?”

The seating area nestled in the right corner was cleaned out. A high wooden table stands there instead of soft couches and old armchairs. Books lie on it, sprawled out, some open, some bookmarked and dogeared, two lie on the floor and underneath the table – both of these are closed.

Elias just smirks and leads them forward to said table. “We will be redecorating the world soon, I hope.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about it.”

“We’ll see. Anyway.” Elias rounds the table, there are no chairs to sit, just the books staring up at them.

“Isn’t it a little dangerous to keep your precious books this exposed?” Jon makes a gesture as to grab one, but he doesn’t make contact. It’s not hard to see the connection. Fourteen books, Elias’ newest ritual, touching any of these books might result in another mark for him.

“I don’t expect any attacks”, Elias’ focus shifts from Jon over to Daisy, “Or should I?”

Daisy stays silent. She shifts behind him, takes another step closer to Jon’s side.

“Wonderful. Now, Jon”, he waves towards his books, “I suppose you know what this all means. And if you don’t, at least you _Know_.” On his last word his eyes flash in a sickeningly blue, a light not quite blinding, but it has black spots dance in Jon’s vision as it fades.

The Eye Elias knows is different from the one Jon serves, has always been, something Elias never quite acknowledged, something that doesn’t fit in his idea of how the Fears have to be categorised. To Jon, the world is made up of little secrets, of big secrets, of a thousand things he doesn’t know, a thousand things he has yet to discover, to find out, to build the secret faces people wear only for themselves, he needs to know what hides behind smiles and quick glances, even if it destroys him. For Elias, the world is a book. Its pages are written already, and he believes if he just reads all the chapters in the right order, he can discover the story behind the story. Another reality that hides behind.

“I might”, Jon says just to be complicated.

Elias frowns down at him. “It’s our key, Jon. Our way into a new world.”

“Huh. It looks like a few old books to me.”

“Tomorrow”, he continues, his eyes narrowing in on Jon for a second before he looks down again, “these “old books” will open a door for us. Each and every single one belongs to a Fear. And they-“

“How many do you have?”

“They will – wait what?” The last of the light in his eyes dies down as his head snaps from his books back to Jon. “There are fourteen books for fourteen Fears, really Jon, I was expecting you to have learned the basic-“

“What about the Extinction?” Jon shrugs, unbothered.

“I- Jon. The Extinction is not a problem yet. Besides, if it’s not powerful enough to manifest in a book then how important can it really be?”

How important can something be, we have no record of? How important can someone be, if you can just forget them? How important are things that are not written down?

 _Priceless_ , the Eye whispers into Jon’s ear.

 _Worthless_ , it tells Elias at the same time.

“It’s your ritual, I’m not getting involved.” Jon shrugs. “I’m just thinking, what about the Vast aspects?”

“About the-?” Elias clears his throat. “Jon, as much as I know you enjoy rebelling against me, have you ever considered how ridiculous you sound? The Vast, even if some of its avatars are more drawn to the sea and some to the sky, is still one Fear.”

Jon shrugs again. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.”

Behind him, Daisy huffs a laugh.

“As fascinating as your”, he pauses, the momentary silence an insult in itself, “theories are, even you cannot break up the categories the Fears exist in. They have been fourteen Fears for far longer than any of us could ever dream to exist.”

“Not so sure about that one, but please”, Jon makes a quick gesture with his hand, “continue.”

“Thank you.” Elias throws a quick glance towards Daisy just to make sure she’s still there, still in is sight and a safe distance away. “As I was saying, these books will open the door for us into a new world made entirely for us.”

 _Me._ Elias doesn’t say it, still, it shines through every syllable. A world just for him, a world in which he doesn’t have to worry about death, the End, the only Fear he never dared to command. The Fear of Death has always been the villain in Jonah Magnus’ story, always an enemy, never a nuisance as the other Fears, never a servant as the Eye.

“How so?”, Jon asks. See how polite he is, no compulsion, no power behind his words. An opportunity to lie, isn’t it?

Elias smiles. It’s a smile that doesn’t fit his face, but his eyes. Old and rough at the edges, and hungry. So very hungry for the opportunity it finds here, well-knowing it already won. A smile like that looks best with someone else’s blood dripping down his face and hands.

“I know you can hear its singing, Jon. You might not like it, but you know you could learn to love it.”

Jon nods. The Eye doesn’t quite _sing._ It’s not like the Slaughter, not like the thundering sounds of war, of meaningless death in the distance luring him closer, leaving him hungry for blood and pain and a world made up entirely of violence. But there is, indeed, a tugging in his mind. He is as much part of the Eye as Elias, a bigger, more important part even. And the Eye longs for a world to reign. It sings to him in his sleep, tells him of how beautiful it would be to _see_ everything, to find every single secret he ever longed for, to have all the knowledge just a thought away. It leaves him with bile in his throat, his mouth dry, with his hands cramping from how tightly he gripped the sheets.

He could love a world like that. Isn’t that the worst thought of all? To fall in love with a broken imitation of what once was sprawling and alive? To love what died in his arms and through his hands? So very, very much in love with the corpse of a world that still had had time to be saved. But no one came to its aid.

“I’m sure I could.” _I know I could._ “I’m just not sure about the other avatars.”

Elias’ face falls. “Yes, they are certainly an issue. Though I trust you to keep the… those who are- let’s call them sympathetic – I trust you will keep those who are sympathetic to your case away from our books.”

He gestures to his books. Stand-ins for the grand library he built over two hundred years. For the worst mistake Jon ever made.

“I don’t think I can.” _I can. But do I want to?_ “If Jude wants to bring a flamethrower, there’s not much I can do.” He holds up his burned hand, twists and turns it until the scar tissue stretches painfully tight over his palm.

“You’re stronger now.”

Daisy huffs a breath that’s not quite a laugh. Jon can’t do much but stay silent and sit through this. Just like it was back at the library. Stay silent, sit through this, _survive._

“Let’s say this works”, Jon says, his eyes dropping to the books in front of him, taking them in. The Eye tells him about each and every one. One of the Stranger – it takes your name, replaces it every time someone opens the books, takes the new one and gives a newer one – lies at the top.

“Let’s say this works and nobody decides to meddle, what would you even do? You have here fourteen books, but your library holds far more than fourteen books. If you have these, what do you need so many avatars for? And what even is my role in all of this?”

Elias lifts his hands, palms up, a mockery of pride in his face. “You are my Archivist. How could I not include you in my plans? But to answer your question: Each book needs to be… activated. As I suppose you’re not amendable for a couple of more marks?” His fingertips skirt lightly over the edge of the table.

Ginger has a strong taste. It’s a root, hard to cut, and when Jon was a child, his grandmother had him cut ginger with the big knife whenever he was upset. Every time he set the knife to one end of the root, he had to lean his entire weight on the handle to cut through. Its smell – spicy, pungent in its intensity on his fingers – clung to him and the kitchen for hours after. It was always for tea, for a hot brew of ginger and spices. At the end, his palms were raw and his arms sore from the exertion and he was too exhausted to be upset anymore.

The curtains in her kitchen were softly white, like the flesh of ginger roots. His grandma used to watch him cut, make the occasional comment on how small the pieces should be, catch his hand whenever he was about to cut off his own finger.

Daisy’s fingers dig into his shoulders until his body jerks into her direction and all he smells is the floral detergent he used for her clothes. The hot taste of ginger lingers in the back of his mouth.

“Don’t you dare.” Daisy’s voice is deep, truly animalistic. The pointed pressure of her fingers in his shoulder lessens, but she doesn’t let go of him entirely, just holds him close, loosely, easy for him to slip out of her half-embrace. He doesn’t. Just stays there.

Elias sighs deeply. “Fine. Peter, you may leave.”

And while the pressure of the Lonely lessens, Jon can still smell ginger, taste its sharpness in every breath.

“You play dirty.” Daisy says it like a threat, dares him to prove her right once more, to justify her hunting him, catching him, ripping into his body and tearing him apart.

But Elias just smiles, plastering a lie to his lips. “While this might be true, I don’t think you can blame me.”

Jon steadies himself on Daisy’s arm. “And you think I will help you. Even after you essentially threatened me?”

“I do.”

This time, Daisy outright laughs. “Yeah, sure.”

“We’re leaving.” Jon takes a step and finds he can actually walk without any help. “Now.”

“Of course.” Elias moves to lead them out again, the library doors open easily under his hands, but he doesn’t step away from the entrance, doesn’t let them pass. “I expect to see you tomorrow evening at midnight. Don’t be late.”

“Of course you do.”

“You will be there.”

Daisy stands behind Jon. She towers over him, dwarfing him in her shadow, but it’s a comforting gesture. If he takes a step back, if he lets himself fall backwards, she will catch him, will hold him close and make sure Elias (or Peter Lukas for that matter) can’t get their hands on him.

“Of course, Elias.”

“Jon.” Elias’ voice cuts the air, his teeth click when he closes his mouth, when he bares his teeth like an animal in a last attempt to make his position clear. “Fine”, he says at last and his demeanour changes in a matter of seconds, he straightens up, tugs his suit jacket into place, smiles. He smiles his lies again. The same smile he wore, when he introduced Jon as an intern to the Archives, the same smile that once destroyed a perfectly mundane life, a smile that never gave a choice – it always just took and took and took, leeching all that might grow into true happiness from the air around it.

“Fine, very well. But Jon? Give Martin my regards. I haven’t seen him in quite a while, I might need to pay the centre another visit?”

The Eye sings.

It sings a melody of all that is forgotten and secret, of all that was buried under time, of all that was long healed; it tugs at the minds confined within this mansion’s walls. A million secrets reside in this house. People lived here, people died here. All who serve the Lukas family have secrets which, if revealed, outweigh the threat of the Lonely constantly hovering above their heads. All these secrets, all this hidden knowledge, drenches the air in static, crackling like fire feeding on paper.

Jon stares up and Elias stares back down. His eyes straining to hold on to what little they can leech from the flurry of knowledge around them. The faint blue around them barely more than a flickering candleflame compared to the inferno that are a thousand eyes on Jon’s body and a thousand more scratching underneath his skin. Within the library, each lightbulb shines brighter and brighter, until all shadows are scrubbed off of the room, until nothing can hide under the scrutinizing gaze that fell upon this house – seen in the most painful way, stripped of privacy, examined and judged harshly. Words and secrets and knowledge all collect into the single maelstrom that is the Archivist.

“Don’t.”

Jon’s voice presses in on the static around them, doesn’t break it, but sinks into it. Words form themselves out of heavy air, more feeling than sound, simply there, existing independently from the throat speaking them.

“Don’t start what you cannot finish.”

Reality bends to accommodate the force behind every sound. Space crackles around them, stutters, desperately trying to obey its own laws, its own truths, but it cannot stand against emotion, cannot stand against dreams – against Fear. And as it breaks – as space and reality twist around the words pressed into their skin like hot iron into leather – it leaves an afterimage of a dreamscape, of colours and melodies mixing in the lenses of cameras.

Jon blinks.

Reality breathes in, space rights itself, the Eye turns away. Elias supresses his panting. While still standing, still upright, his eyes are reddened from the exertion. The pretence of composure doesn’t fit his upright stand, contrasts his presentation of himself.

“I”, he swallows dryly, “I will expect you tomorrow.”

“Of course you will.”

Jon steps around him back out in the direction of the entrance hall, Daisy following on his heels. Elias doesn’t stop them.

♣

> **Sasha:** Anything new to report?
> 
> **Tim:** Yes Martin, did something huge and significant happen in the last two minutes? Are you now swarming with monsters? Who appeared within the last two minutes? Because I clearly remember Sasha asking the Exact Same Thing two minutes ago!
> 
> **Sasha:** listen I want to be sure
> 
> **Martin:** Nothing new to report
> 
> **Sasha:** thank you Martin, let us know if that changes
> 
> **Tim:** Sasha y didnt u take the first shift  
>  **Tim:** let Martin have a pleasant date with Jon
> 
> **Sasha:** Martin volunteered for this.
> 
> **Martin:** besides, Jon has plans for tonight, Daisy is over and I don’t think she likes me very much
> 
> **Tim:** to b fair u are dating her baby brother
> 
> **Martin:** arent u a big sibling too? how am i going to get her to likehdkxzdt
> 
> **Sasha:** Martin!  
>  **Sasha:** is everything alright?  
>  **Sasha:** Tim, get your things  
>  **Sasha:** Martin we’re on our way, don’t take any unnecessary risks!
> 
> **Tim:** hes typing give him a sec
> 
> **Sasha:** we’ll be there in ten
> 
> **Martin:** please don’t I dropped my phone and hit send on accident, nothing happened, everything is okay
> 
> **Sasha:** We don’t have time to wait for an answer Tim  
>  **Sasha:** Oh
> 
> **Tim:** yes oh  
>  **Tim:** maybe chill a little?  
>  **Tim:** we’re trying to avert the end of the world sure but u wont be any help if your so paranoid
> 
> **Sasha:** I just have a really bad feeling about this  
>  **Sasha:** you know like you sometimes get that weird dejavu feeling?  
>  **Sasha:** it’s kind of like that but amplified  
>  **Sasha:** like there’s something I should know and it’s somewhere in my head but I can’t really grab it?
> 
> **Tim:** never had that
> 
> **Martin:** anxiety?
> 
> **Sasha:** anyway, Martin, anything new to report?
> 
> **Tim:** you can’t hear it but I just groaned verrrry annoyedly
> 
> **Sasha:** no I heard that

♣

Wednesday night ends without any suspicious activity, which, according to Sasha, is even more suspicious than anything happening at all.

♣

> **Sasha:** I’m in position
> 
> **Tim:** ???  
>  **Tim:** Already? It’s not even seven?
> 
> **Sasha:** I’m not sure if we can really trust these things
> 
> **Martin:** did you find anything else in the statements?
> 
> **Tim** : anything ure not telling us?
> 
> **Sasha:** not yet  
>  **Sasha:** but I brought some along
> 
> **Martin:** isn’t that kind of the opposite of keeping watch?
> 
> **Tim:** what marto said  
>  **Tim:** these things have a thing for sucking u in
> 
> **Sasha:** I know  
>  **Sasha:** I just feel better? With them here I mean  
>  **Sasha:** idk
> 
> **Tim:** besides it isn’t even time yet  
>  **Tim** : u should relax a little more
> 
> **Sasha:** I cant relax tim  
>  **Sasha:** every time I so much as tried to think of something else it feels like I’m getting a headache  
>  **Sasha:** its way easier to concentrate on this than trying to concentrate on something else  
>  **Sasha** : like something is trying to grab my attention but its not really there yet?
> 
> **Tim** : sounds like the beginning of a statement tbh
> 
> **Martin:** are you sure youll be alright
> 
> **Sasha:** yes, I am
> 
> **Tim:** really tho?  
>  **Tim:** bc Martin sat there for fucking ever yesterday  
>  **Tim:** and I know u  
>  **Tim:** u might actually go out and find trouble  
>  **Tim:** and then get sued by perfectly normal people or something
> 
> **Sasha:** I won’t  
>  **Sasha:** I’m staying hidden until I see something supernatural  
>  **Sasha:** then I immediately text you
> 
> **Martin:** and we’ll come to help you  
>  **Martin:** right Tim?
> 
> **Tim:** sure sure  
>  **Tim:** just try to make it not in the next 20 mins  
>  **Tim:** I’m waiting for my food
> 
> **Sasha:** you are the worst
> 
> **Tim:** love u 2 <3

♣

It’s around eleven when Martin’s phone (set to the loudest setting for once) rings while still in his hands. It rips him out of his head and out of the many different ways he pictures his and Jon’s second date going. Maybe this time he can hold his hand when they walk, maybe Jon will cuddle up next to him and he can lay an arm around his shoulders.

He is in the middle of trying to force “I love you but we will not watch some random slasher horror movie on our second date” into something more loving that Jon understands as clear _no_ to the movie, but clear _yes_ to the date part. It’s way more complicated than Martin anticipated. Maybe he can just recommend a different movie? Something soft and romantic. But would Jon even want that? He’s been nothing but encouraging whenever Martin came up with a date idea, even confessed to liking merry-go-arounds (very adorable), horror movies (less adorable), and theatre plays (Martin chose not to comment). 

Then his phone rings and Martin drops it with a yelp. Fortunately, the carpet on his living room floor is soft enough to cushion its fall and it doesn’t stop ringing on the floor.

His heart still in his throat, Martin picks it up and takes the call.

“Martin”, Sasha says, “get Tim and meet me behind the centre. Be quick.” She ends the call before Martin has a chance to answer.

This is it. This is the moment they waited for the entire week. And he is as ready as he can be – not at all. Still, he nods, as if Sasha could see him, then gathers his keys and wallet, and calls Tim on his way down the staircase to his car.

“Mar-?”, Tim says, but Martin interrupts him.

“Sasha called, I’m on my way to pick you up, we’re meeting her at the centre, get ready.”

Tim swears before hanging up on Martin and Martin gets into his car, starts the engine, leaves his flat behind, racing down the street with little regard for speed limits.

The air tastes like anticipation, like expectation, burning on his tongue. For now, everything is possible, the world might end, it might not, reality might right itself after tonight, it might not. They might come back from this, they might not.

Tim is waiting in front of his door when Martin reaches his street. He gets in without much ado, just sits, closes the door, waits to arrive. His fingers, not occupied with a steering wheel, dig into the fabric of his jeans.

His jacket hangs open, and he’s still wearing the same shirt he wore to work this morning, but it now has a streak high at the collar where something dripped onto it. Martin doesn’t look much better. He didn’t even think to change out of the soft and fuzzy jumper he likes to wear at home, but that’s way too old to leave the house in. Well, looks like he did it now.

“The centre”, Tim finally says after a lifetime of silence.

“Yes.” Martin’s voice scratches at his throat, foreign to his ears. “Behind the centre.”

“Why there?” It’s not quite a question, doesn’t end like one.

Martin risks a glance over to Tim, but he doesn’t dare look away from the street for too long, as they’re going way too fast than what is allowed (and probably safe). Tim stares out the front window like he, too, was steering a tin box through the winding streets of a Scottish village up to their (maybe) impending doom.

“I don’t know.”

The drive takes barely ten minutes, but it stretches like hours. Time doesn’t make sense, is not linear anymore, they cannot be so close already yet still so far away. Every second they spend in this car, on their way, is another second Sasha is alone there.

Or maybe she’s not even alone anymore. And isn’t that a terrifying option?

 _Hurry,_ says the anxious voice right next to Martin’s heart. _Hurry, you cannot leave her behind. You cannot leave her alone with this._

When the centre finally comes into sight, Tim sits wound up like a spring ready to uncoil.

Martin pulls up on the parking lot and stops his car somewhere between two parking spots, uncaring of his manners at the moment. Tim throws the door open as Martin kills the engine.

“Where is she?”, he says, scanning the parking lot and the entrance for Sasha.

“Behind the building”, Martin says, unfolding himself out of his car, “she said behind the centre.”

They round the building in varying degrees of speed, as Tim full on runs and Martin kind of awkwardly jogs behind. It takes him a couple of seconds longer, but as he rounds the building, he nearly runs into Tim, who stopped to grab Sasha by her shoulders and examine her face.

On the first glance she looks okay.

“What happened?”, Tim asks, still checking her over for any injuries. “How did you end up here? This is the _other side of the village_!”

Sasha shushes him. “I’m okay, Tim, don’t fuss.”

“I’m sorry for being worried about my best friend!”

“Will you shut up!” She gestures further towards the trees.

Behind the centre is little more than undergrowth and sporadic trees. It’s not an area that’s used often except for a couple of scouts, who apparently enjoyed their smoke breaks at the backdoor. Other than that the land is grass and trees and bushes, unkempt and unregulated. Leitner is not a big fan of landscaping. In the night, Martin can’t really make out much except for dark shapes in the distance.

“They’ll hear you, stop fussing.”

“They?”, Martin asks, still slightly out of breath.

Sasha lays her finger over her lips. “I’ll show you, but you have to be very, very quiet.”

“Wait”, Tim holds up both hands, “hold up, first, tell us what happened, what did you see?”

Sasha throws a quick glance over her shoulder. “Okay, very quickly. I waited and for a long time nothing happened. Then, you wouldn’t believe it, Jane Prentiss turns up. And that other guy, Timothy, arrives just a few minutes later.”

“Why didn’t you call us?” Tim holds his voice as low as possible.

“Because they were moving, and I didn’t know if you had a chance of finding me in the middle of following them.”

“You walked?”, Martin says. “All the way through the village?”

Sasha shrugs. “It was more three steps then ducking and waiting again. These guys do not move very quickly.”

“But they didn’t see you, right?” Tim eyes her again, like he expects her to have worms dropping out of her nose any moment now.

“Yes, Tim, I’m okay, and no, they didn’t notice me. I’m certain they’d have attacked me if they had. Now can we please move? I don’t know for how long they’ll wait there.”

Tim and Martin share a look, but before either of them can step out, Tim says, “Lead the way” and Sasha does so without hesitation.

The plant life growing here isn’t high or very thick, but there are enough trees around for bushes and ferns to cling to some places here and there. Not quite a forest, but it could be one with a few more decades to grow, or maybe it had once been one and simply remembered what it was like to grow high and close, choking the light threatening to reach the ground.

Sasha leads them to one of the greener patches with just about enough growth to hide them all if they cower behind the tree trunk. The sparse moonlight illuminates hardly more than occasional shapes whenever the cloud cover breaks under the weight of the ink blue sky. The first group of bushes and trees is followed quickly by another one, then another one, then another. Weak, thin branches to hide three lives behind, to save them from certain death. Nearly unbothered, Sasha leads them further away from the building, deeper into a forest that doesn’t exist, a forest Martin cannot see from the centre when he looks out of the windows.

Trees grow closer together, the undergrowth grows thicker. Yet, Sasha leads them on. Her steps are secure, like treading well known hiking paths. Like she’s the one being led, too.

As the trees fill in more and more spaces, as each of their steps is followed by soft rustling, Martin keeps staring down at the roots he steps over. And he starts to wonder. They were so thin where they started. Then they grew bigger until he had to step over them. Now, he can barely see them anymore with how white the forest floor is. Fog lies low on the ground, only flowing up when they take another step, when they breathe too loudly, disturb the soft white blanket over all the smallest plants. What a nice thought. A shield to keep them safe, to make sure people don’t plug them, to make sure no sunlight ever catches their leaves for them to grow, so they stay low, stay small and cold and cut off from any life they could have known. How beautiful. How tragic.

Sasha stops them at an unspecific place that looks like any other they hid behind and passed through in the last … for how long did they walk between the trees? Minutes? Hours? Martin cannot see the Leitner building behind him anymore.

“There”, Sasha mouths, her words silent in the night. She points and as Martin follows her finger with his eyes, he has to supress a gasp.

There stands, tall and imposing, a mansion of frankly preposterous proportions. Nothing separates it from the woods around, no gate or wall, just an open garden and a house too big to not see it from the centre right in the middle. A cobbled path leads up towards the front door, Sasha led them to a hiding spot far enough away to stay hidden, but still close enough to have a clear view of the path. And not far off from them stand two more figures.

It’s Jane Prentiss in her red dress and falling worms, and her companion Timothy.

“They’re just standing there”, Sasha whispers barely above a breath. “Waiting for something to happen.”

“Can you understand what they’re saying?”, Tim whispers back.

Sasha shakes her head, as does Martin. They’re close enough to see them, but too far away to catch any of their conversation. If they are, in fact, talking.

It takes another few moments of straining their ears for them to actually pick something up. Sasha is the first one to perk up, her eyes moving to where the path emerges from the woods. Martin and Tim catch the voices just heartbeats later. Two voices, one man, one woman, neither of which one of the hives.

“Look”, says the male voice, smoothly, “I don’t want to spoil your fun, not at all! Most of the time I find your schemes amusing, but on Wednesday?”

The other voice giggles. “Rules are there to be broken.”

The slight lisp in her speaking has Martin straighten up. This voice. It followed him when he first met its owner, haunted his nightmares for a while until he could be sure she was gone – truly and completely gone from the village and all she could hurt.

Onto the path steps Annabelle Cane, the Spider Martin once found in Jon’s cottage. She’s still followed by an entourage of smaller and bigger spiders sprawled out behind her like a bridal veil, though the dress she wears today doesn’t remind him of a wedding, but of a vintage dinner party. And she’s not alone. A dark-skinned man in something Martin only wears to funerals waits at her side. The lighting doesn’t give them any details, but if Martin had to guess, he’d say this man was not human either. No spiderwebs or fangs protrude from his body, no extra limbs adorn his back, there is just a soft smell of decay following him around, spreading from him outwards. It’s sweet, like century-old paper and weeks-old flowers, almost pleasant.

“But not on our lunch days, Annabelle!”, he says, gesturing with both his hands. There’s skin around his fingers, flesh and fat where Martin expected pure white bone.

Annabelle giggles again. “Let’s greet the others. Oh look it’s Jane! Jane!”, Annabelle calls, waving her arms while walking towards her. “Jane, you look great today! This dress is such a looker!”

“You knew she would be here already”, the man mumbles, but follows along without objection.

They move further out of hearing range and take with them the unnerving smell of decay. Next to Martin, Tim brushes a spiderweb out of his way to get a closer look at what’s going on. Martin very much wants to move back, move away until he cannot see Annabelle anymore. Nothing about this is in any way manageable. They cannot fight this.

Laughter rings out from the group of… creatures, talking animated among them. A cruel mockery of humans. Sasha leans further into the shadows, flinching back from something neither Martin, nor Tim have yet noticed. It takes another few seconds for them to feel the heat.

“Now it’s a party!”, a voice yells from the path entrance and the first leaves wilt away under the steadily rising heat. Sweat drenches the collar of Martin’s jumper, Sasha breathes shallowly through her teeth.

“Jude!”, Annabelle calls (announces, as everyone else seems to recognise the figure stepping closer). Jude walks with both her arms to her sides, only in a tank top and shorts. Her skin moves in swirling patterns around her body, it drips from her fingertips and lands to her feed, hardening quickly, but not without heating the stones until they’re nearly red. The oppressive heat has tree bark crack and leaves shiver as they die in seconds. Tim leans onto Martin’s shoulder, his clammy hand sinks into his jumper, leaving the distinct impression of wet handprints.

They don’t have time to linger on the uncomfortable feeling it leaves, as another figure follows right behind Jude. And this time, they cannot confuse them with a human.

The figure is a mannequin dressed in clothes better fit for a ringmaster in a circus. They take off their top hat, take one step forward, then step up onto the tiptoes of their right foot and spin around. Their ankle makes no noise as it is twisted and broken and twisted around and around, like the joint of a merry-go-around with every spin.

“Hello!”, the spinning figure sings, then lets themselves fall forward to do the splits. “What a nice evening.”

“Sure”, Jude shrugs. She’s still waiting halfway on her way over to the group.

The mannequin, however, doesn’t follow her. Still nearly on the height Martin and the others are, they turn their head around, and catches, for a second longer, on the bush they hide behind. Their eyes move on, take in the rest of the world, but Martin swears to everything he loves, their eyes lingered on them for a moment.

The moment, too, lingers. Tim moves, just a millimetre, just a hair width, but the mannequin moves to stand up, their painted eyes blinking independently from each other. The wooden mouth makes a noise of pleasant surprise as it takes steady steps over towards them, not looking, not searching, but with a clear destination in mind.

Martin leans heavier back into the shadow of the tree behind him, unsure of where to go, where else to hide if they’re found out as outsiders, intruders to the execution of the entire world. His very same fear reflects in Tim’s eyes, his locked muscles ready to spring up and run and run and run. Only Sasha barely even flinches, silently waiting, taking in all that is opening up in front of them.

The mannequin moves closer now, not yet close enough to see them clearly, but they’re in reach, if any of them spoke, whispered, they would sure hear it, surely find them

“Nikola!”, Annabelle calls loudly. “Nikola, did you bring the coffin?”

The mannequin, Nikola, turns back to Annabelle. “I did not! What am I to this dirty coffin anyway? A babysitter? The Watcher better call the Delivery Men to fetch him something, I certainly won’t!”

Annabelle laughs. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted when you tell him!” She waves Nikola closer. “Come join us!”

Martin is still holding his breath even as Nikola moves towards the others, moves further and further away from them. But Nikola doesn’t turn around, doesn’t move to come closer again, just stays at Jude’s side among the other… the others.

He cannot tell what they are supposed to be. Are they ghosts? Are they monsters?

Tim leans on him again as he relaxes his legs enough to keep them from cramping. Sasha, however, still stares, still just takes everything in, frozen in her hiding, but the moonlight hits her eyes just so to give them the faintest of glows.

This time, she’s not the only one who turns to the entrance before the new arrival shows up. Heavy footsteps have the earth shake. Stones, small enough to go unnoticed otherwise, dance around each other as something comes closer and closer.

What steps onto the path now can barely be called a man. The body is stitched together, flesh sewn like a patchwork blanket, muscles budge underneath. Here and there, like fashion accessories, bones break the skin and the cloth of the ripped dress shirt he’s wearing. The limbs are elongated, sit in all the wrong angles on the body, twist and move, and muscles ripple underneath the skin like taunt ropes, stapled back together with pieces of bone, like the small round heads of needles in an unfinished sewing project. It fits this man.

Unfinished.

He decided to re-build himself, to rip himself apart, tear open his skin, rummage through his organs, nit-picking which he wanted to keep, how many of which would fit his body and he didn’t like the answer. Too little. So he put out his fat and cut out his muscles and broke his bones and let them heal in all the wrong angles to widen his figure, to open his ribcage to fit two and three and four hearts in-between his three lungs. And after everything, after he added all that he wanted, sew it back together with hair and clipped pieces of bone together like chains to keep in what doesn’t fit together. He wrapped himself in muscles and fat like a coat, huddling together into layers and layers of bare flesh oozing heavily between twisted bones.

Unfinished.

His skin is only an idea. Another try to sculpt himself. To remodel his form, reshape what he once was. And what he once was, was human.

Martin swallows the bile rising up his throat as the man turns his deformed head back and forth. He has no lips of skin, but hard plates of bone that click and shift and break when he speaks. The seams on his body rip through the skin they hold – and they still hold on, still keep him together.

Next to him, Sasha grabs his arm, digs her fingers into the soft sleeve. Her face is barely visible in the dim light, just the deeper shadows trace her features. With open mouth and wide eyes, she stares at the man, then at Martin, then at Tim. Her lips form a word, a name, but she doesn’t speak it, doesn’t dare to summon whatever the name might call upon them.

Annabelle does. Like an usher, announcing them, leading them to her, away from the three unbidden humans.

“Jared!” She waves her arm. “I see you found your way!”

Jared’s bone-lips form into a crackling smile. “Annabelle! It’s good to see you all again. And Oliver!”

The man Annabelle came with, nods in acknowledgement.

Next to Jude, Nikola steps up, getting on their tiptoes. “Jared, honey, Jared, I have excellent skin! Feel it! It’s fresh!” They hold out their arm for Jared to feel the skin there with his fingers – Martin counts seven of differing length and width on one hand.

Jared grunts, his throat forms something that must be words, but is drowned out by the crackling of lightning hitting tree bark. It’s an explosion, a scream in the middle of the forest, but none of the creatures so much as flinch, not even as the air floods with the biting smell of ozone. Annabelle turns her head, expectant, but not surprised.

Then the sky shivers. Above them, clouds and stars part, make space between them for the pull upwards, the tilting of ground to sky and sky to even deeper sky. Vertigo grips Martin, and Martin, in turn, grabs onto one of the thick roots to his knees.

Then, with a loud pop like a Champaign bottle, two figures drop down. They flutter like leaves, fall from the sky, faster and faster and faster, but both land on their feet. The only sound left is them arguing with each other.

“I really don’t get why you would even _want_ me here!”, one of them says. It’s a man in a sharp suit, but his shirt is halfway unbuttoned.

The other one, a small, brittle skeleton of an old man, dressed in various mismatched colours, waves his hand like nothing means anything. At all.

“I’m sure you’ll have some fun, Mikey-boy. These things are always fun.”

On cue, Annabelle chirps up again. “Mike!” Mike nods somewhat uneasy. “Simon!” The older man perks up when she calls his name and stalks over, pulling Mike after him with surprising strength.

“Oh Annabelle! You look beautiful today! And Oliver, Mikey-boy, it’s Oliver!”

Mike mumbles something drowned out by Simon’s chattering. Oliver glares at him.

“Any idea where Peter is? It’s always such a joy to annoy him!” Simon rubs his hands with a tiny giggle.

“That”, Annabelle says, her voice loud enough to carry over to Martin and the others, “is an excellent question! I have yet to find where Elias is hiding, too!”

The fog on the forest floor moves out of her way as she stalks over into the middle of the path, staring right up to the mansion. Tendrils of white reach out to hold her back, but they dispel into fanned spiderwebs before getting absorb by the fog once more. The tripling of tiny spiders, the loud tapping of impatient fingernails on stone, scuttles towards her, swarms around. They stay hidden, covered by a layer of swirling fog, like Martin and Tim and Sasha are under a layer of thin leaves and branches.

The others turn to Annabelle, but don’t yet follow her. Jane says something that doesn’t carry, Timothy and Oliver laugh, but their laughter get swallowed up wholly in the unnatural silence engulfing everything, all around the mansion. Martin breathes through his mouth, careful not to choke on his anticipation. Something is coming, something is about to happen.

Something. Waits.

Steps cut through the silence. They fall secure, echo for a second just to vanish into the vast endlessness of fog sprawling and turning all around the grounds in patterns too intricate to trace.

“Ah”, Annabelle says after another moment. “He has arrived.”

And indeed, another figure approaches. This one, however, comes from the mansion. They are tall, the suit sharp, the tapping sounds the cane makes every time it connects with the ground gives the steps a harsher, realer echo than what should be possible.

It takes Martin a long moment to recognise Elias, long enough for him to reach the waiting group of people. He doesn’t mingle, though, just stands a couple of steps away from Annabelle, his cane at his side.

“Elias.”

A smirk curls around his lips. “Annabelle.” He nods vaguely towards the others. “I welcome you all. Thank you for the attendance, you will not regret it. Today”, with his cane hanging from his hand, he spreads his arms, “we will create a new history, we will find a new paradise for us, a world of Fear to feed on whenever we wish to.”

A slight murmur raises up, not above the treetops, just above the fog, just centimetres above the ground.

“Wonderful.” Elias rests both his hands on top of his cane again. “Is everyone here?”

The question is more, heavy, _forceful_. A shiver runs through the small crowd in front of him. Martin digs his fingernails into his palm to keep himself from talking, to keep the words inside that threaten to breach his lips. Tim sways, he doesn’t speak, doesn’t really move just yet, but he fights against it, against the need to speak up, like a compulsion.

“Fuck you!”, Jude yells. “No fucking compulsion on social gatherings! You’re on thin fucking ice!” She flips him off and a small flame dances atop her fingertip.

Annabelle tuts. “Jude is right, Elias. No compulsion. Either nobody uses their powers or everybody does and we all know how the latter one will end… don’t we?”

She throws a pointed look to Jude and Mike, but they ignore her in favour of fist bumping each other with wide grins.

“We’re missing two”, Oliver says instead. “But I can feel they – ah. There they are.”

He turns back to the single point where path and forest meet, and the others follow. Even Elias looks up, his grin is wide, his eyes shine with unnatural blue light surrounding his head like a halo.

Martin moves, a bit, not much, just a hair’s width to have a better view of the path and the newcomers. A couple of curious spiders scuttle away from his motion, but settle down quietly without a fuss.

As Daisy steps under the moon, Martin doesn’t recognise her at first. She stands low, ready to break into a sprint if needed, ready to hunt and rip and kill. Every muscle in Martin’s body protests, screams to jump up and run away, run away, run away. She hasn’t noticed him yet, preoccupied with the second figure behind her, he still has a chance, can still get away. Her breath in his neck might fade if he could just get up and run away until he is finally – finally! – safe again.

It’s Elias’ voice that pulls him out of the downward spiral Daisy’s appearance sent him to.

“The guest of honour has arrived, it seems.”

Daisy snarls, her lips pulled back, her teeth bared, behind her, the second figure moves forward.

Jon’s eyes are glowing. They shine from within, a soft green, like freshly cut grass on an open field. He steps forwards next to Daisy, holds himself higher, straighter than Martin has ever seen him. As he walks, he nods to the group around, raises his hand for a short greeting, then he steps among them and fits in right from the first moment. Martin’s eyes, however, never stray from him, never lose him in the small crowd.

“It seems we’re all here then”, Elias says. “Well, now let us begin.”

He takes another few steps forward, his cane swinging from his hand again. Next to him, two more man appear from the fog. Martin would have sworn they hadn’t been there just a second ago. But of course they have to. Otherwise what? The fog built them from nothing more than loneliness and white?

With how the evening is going, it isn’t the craziest idea, he’s had so far.

Simon nods to the elder man. “Peter! Good to see you! You look terrible! Need some sun, I think!”

Peter flinches but doesn’t acknowledge Simon with more than a spare glance, but Simon takes it in stride.

“My fellow avatars”, Elias starts, “today, we will re-write history, we will undo reality, and rebuild it in our image. And in the image of our gods.” With one of his hands he reaches towards Peter, waiting for him to hand him something, but he doesn’t, and Elias just stands there for a moment.

“Peter!”

“Oh fine!”

After an awkward pause, he hands him a book. It’s old and bound in old cracked leather, a stylised eye stares up from its cover and while it’s clearly just a drawing, Martin cannot shake the feeling that it actually moves to look at him. To find him and Tim and Sasha, hidden away from too curious eyes. Or so they thought.

“Today”, Elias continues, his voice swelling with every word he speaks as he raises the book for all his audience to see it, to accept it as their holy text of truth, unquestioned, unbroken, “we will bring the end of the world, we will finally open the door to the Fear domains and build a bridge for the Dread Powers to cross over and reach us. Finally.”

He hands his book back to Peter, who dutifully stands at his side, but fades away ever so slightly.

“Tonight, I will entrust you with fourteen books for fourteen Fears. If just the right passages are read by each one of you, we will create a symphony, a beautiful melody for our gods to hold onto as they take what is rightfully theirs.”

With one hand, he gestures behind him to the mansion.

“Follow Evan inside”, the younger man next to Peter nods, “in the library’s reading room you will find your books, ready to be read. And I will join you shortly after. But as it stands, we still have to have a… heart to heart, don’t we, Jon?”

His grin splits his face in pieces, his glowing eyes fixate on Jon, who in turn looks back up at him, waiting for him to continue, to add anything else. Daisy’s eyes narrow as she watches Elias.

Then, Jon takes a step forward – _Don’t go!,_ Martin wants to scream, _needs_ to scream, he needs to jump up and run to him, help him get away, protect him.

“Really, Elias? This is your grand scheme? “Jon, please come with me, I just want to talk”? That’s all? I must say, I’m disappointed, I expected more finesse.”

Oliver snorts behind his hand.

Elias shoots him a look but doesn’t linger. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Jon.”

“Well, I do, so let’s fast-forward all of this.” Jon gestures with his hand like he’s unspooling tape. “Everyone here will go to find their book for the grand finale. You and Peter, however, will stay behind with me. I’m a small man, not very strong either, so I imagine knocking me out won’t be hard. Once I’m incapacitated, you will take my eyes and replace them with your own, to make sure your Archivist is willing to go through with this, as there cannot be a ritual of the Watcher without the Archivist, can there? Besides, you taking my position will guarantee your survival during the Change, as just being a Watcher will not do so.” Jon shrugs. “This is not a grand plan, Elias. I must admit, I’m rather disappointed.”

Elias taps his cane, once, harshly, like a gunshot in the silence. “I would be a right fool if my plans were this obvious, wouldn’t I, Archivist?”

His eyes flicker brighter, collect all light around, drain the moon of what little shining it can spare. It leaves an afterimage of his eyes floating right in front.

Daisy growls, locking her muscles for a jump, but Jon raises his hand to hold her back.

“Elias”, he says, his voice echoing between the trees. Jon doesn’t move, doesn’t change, but his figure gains more permanence. In the washed-out reality of the Lonely, he suddenly becomes _more,_ an indent in the world around him, a beautiful beacon of light, of recognition in a world adamant to forget and leave behind.

“You think yourself a smart man. You believe you deserve more than what the world has given you. And you do whatever it takes and sacrifice whoever you need to reach your goals.”

All of this is true. All of these are undeniable truths. Jon’s voice cannot speak a lie. Like the fair folk that twists and spins their words to an intricate web of answers without ever tainting their lips with a single untruth.

“You use your employees as shields, as swords, as tools. The same way you use the Fears. Never as your gods, but always as a tool to achieve whatever next goal you reach for. And you used me, you forged me into the sword you wanted to spear the world with. And now, after all this time, you want to use my blade once more, this time not to wield, but to become. Do you really think I don’t know that? Do you believe you led me on all this time? After all the things you did to me, us, all the archival assistants?”

Jon laughs. Once, clipped, without joy.

“Right now as I stand before you, there are three people inside the Magnus library, three intruders in your holy halls. You didn’t notice them, did you? Too occupied with your schemes, with so many avatars all together in one place. Yes, Elias. I am sure you remember Georgie Baker? You have to, you sent her an invitation to this as well. Now, she isn’t here. Instead she decided to help me out, together with Melanie King. Exactly the Melanie you were so dismissive of. They both have a streak of destruction to them. Now, we can make a gamble, if you wish, I hear you’re fond of those.”

Jon reaches out his hand, waiting for Elias to step closer, to grab and shake it, but Elias doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just stares in mute horror, his eyes wide and open to the play he is victim to.

“I bet, the Library burns quicker than you can transfer your consciousness from body to body. Do you want to take this bet?”

Elias stares at his hand, then back at Jon’s face.

“You’re bluffing”, he says, but his voice is frayed like old rope, used up over years of gloating and bragging, suddenly silenced.

Jon grins. His eyes shine brighter even than the moon above. Their acidic green envelops him in a radiant mandorla illuminating his features, banishing the shadows from his clothing, any darkness that might blemish his figure is forcefully scrubbed off in the unforgiving light. It reaches all around. The soft blue hue of Elias’ eyes pales in comparison to this all-consuming shine. Martin clutches the collar of his shirt as he stares in awe, as he shivers under a scrutinising gaze that is not directed towards him.

“We both _Know,_ I’m not.”

Elias takes half a step back, his ring cradled to his chest like a lifeline. As he moves away, the glow around Jon’s body lessens until it is only left in his eyes. Beautiful eyes, but full of nightmares.

“I suppose”, Elias clears his throat, not yet back in the moment, “we will have to make due then with what we have.”

The silence lingers between them, stretches on until it becomes uncomfortable. Peter is nearly faded entirely, the book he kept safe doesn’t look all that powerful anymore. Elias, on the other hand, stands straight up, still upright, his cane only an accessory. His breathing goes quicker than it did when he started holding his speech, still, Martin has to admire his dedication.

“Yes, about that”, Annabelle says, “I’m not sure there is anything else to do. Don’t get me wrong, I very much enjoyed the Archivist chewing you out, and threatening you was a good move, really Jon, I’m proud.” She applauds him curtly. “But if there’s nothing else, I might as well get on.”

Elias raises both hands to quiet her. “We will still be able to call upon the Dread-“

“Will we though?”

“Yes”, Elias moves like he very much wants to stamp his foot, but thinks better of it at the last second, instead he taps his cane again, “It is still possible for us to bring the end of the known world tonight, if you would just follow me inside.”

“Okay, okay, there’s no need to rush. We’re putting this to a vote, that’s a fair solution.”

“A… a vote?”

“Ah yes”, Oliver pulls a pencil from his breast pocket and starts scribbling on a clipboard, Martin is pretty sure he didn’t have when this started. “A majority vote would be best. Let me just quickly…” His scribbling becomes quicker while he nods to himself.

“I expected more from tonight”, Jude says to Nikola, who takes the opportunity and throws themselves over Jude’s burning hot shoulders. The places where plastic covers their body instead of skin boil and bubble and pop as they make contact.

“Do not despair! There might be more to come!”

Elias holds up both his hands. “Yes there is more, we can still follow through”

“Alright”, Oliver says and taps his pencil against his clipboard. “Everyone has one vote, you can either be for or against the apocalypse or abstain. Everyone ready?”

Elias’ angry “No please” is drowned out by a chorus of agreement.

“Everyone who’s against bringing the apocalypse tonight raises their hand now.”

As hands are raised, Oliver counts them out with his pencil.

“Everyone has only one vote, Annabelle, take your other arm down – no that one, too – you’re not getting eight votes, okay? I’m counting you once. Jared, the same goes for you!”

Jared’s pout breaks the bone on his lip. “But only one of these arms was originally me. I think I should count as more than one person.”

“Tough luck”, Oliver marks him down.

“Please, you cannot”, Elias says, but none of them are actually still looking at him.

“Okay, so, we have one, two, three… Nikola is that- oh okay, yes, didn’t expect you to make a handstand to vote, but that counts, so one, two, three – Jude, Mike can you maybe stop high five-ing each other it makes it hard to count, okay once more… one, two”, he keeps mumbling to himself, occasionally pointing to someone until he points right next to Elias, “eleven, Evan, is that a vote against the apocalypse?”

Elias spins around to face him. “Evan!”

Evan just shrugs, his hand still in the air.

“Okay, so twelve votes against the apocalypse tonight.” He nods. “Nearly unanimous.”

“No, wait, wait, wait”, Elias shouts, his voice heavy in the air between them, but he lost all control he might once had over the situation. “You can’t just vote against the end of the world!”

“We clearly just did”, Jane says, gesturing towards Oliver and his clipboard that worms fly from her fingers.

Jon yelps and leaps back right into Daisy’s arms, who quickly stomps down on the worms.

“Jane”, she says, her voice deep, not quite a growl anymore, but her bloodthirst sings. “Be careful.”

“Whoops. Sorry Jon.”

“It’s, uhm, it’s okay”, Jon rubs over his arms, “I just don’t like these worms… uh digging into my flesh. I- No offence, Jane.”

“None taken.”

“To be fair”, Timothy says, scooping up a handful of worms that drip out from between his fingers, “it is rather unpleasant when they burrow through into your body when you’re still, well, human. I know the feeling.”

“If this is all”, Peter says suddenly from behind Elias, “I’ll be going. I have some other things to do today, you know?”

“Peter!”, but Elias screams in vain, Peter is already gone. What replaces him, however, has Elias regain a significant portion of his grin. Right next to him, on the other side from where Peter stood, waits now a sickly yellow door. Unfortunately for him, he moves to knock on the door right the second someone pushes it open from within. To his credit, he doesn’t scream as the door hits him flat in his face, just stumbles back for a moment before sinking to his knees and holding his nose with both hands.

“Ooh, are you guys done already?”, Michael asks with his widest, too big for his face grin.

Behind him, someone moves with long, sharp-fingered hands to open the door even wider. An incredible tall woman in incredibly disorientating clothing steps out from behind him, brandishing two boxes in each hand.

“We brought pizza”, she says before setting her cartons down.

Behind her, next to the door Michael just steps out of, Evan kneels down next to Elias and offers him a handkerchief for his bleeding nose, but he waves him off.

“Archivist!”, he yells, and Jon turns to his bloodied face, a piece of the peperoni pizza the Distortion brought in his hand.

“What did you do?”

But all Jon does is shrug. “I really don’t know what you expected. You invited sixteen avatars, more even, but these are the only ones, who came. And you expected them all to what? Blindly follow your orders?”

“This will have consequences.”

“Yes, I suppose it will”, Annabelle says, “for one, you will look awful with that bruising for quite a while.”

“This is ridiculous! I cannot stand for this… lunacy!” He shoots Jon one last glare, then moves to get up, leaning heavily on his cane. Evan tries to help him up, but he shoos him off before he can help at all. With his own, monogrammed handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose, Elias turns to Jon.

“You will pay for this, Archivist.” His glare lost its intensity, his eyes lost their shining.

Jon gives him a mock salute before they both turn away from each other – Elias moving further up, back towards the mansion he descended from earlier, and Jon back to the other people still gathered around the two pizza cartons.

“That was it, huh?”, Annabelle asks. Behind her, Jude is shooting actual flames from finger guns as she tries to hit the pizza pieces Nikola juggles with.

Jon watches them from over her shoulder. “I honestly don’t know what he expected. Trying to get two avatars to work with each other is hard, but sixteen? Seems impossible.”

“Not really.” Oliver slings his arms around Jon’s shoulders. “You did it. Not a single one of us payed any attention to Elias’ talking, all we did was inflict chaos and be on our worst behaviour. That was the plan, right?”

Jon sighs. He leans heavily against Oliver’s side and into his arm. “It really was. But giving any more detailed plans than “Bring chaos upon Elias Bouchard” is impossible even for me.”

“You stopped the rituals”, Daisy says, her hand finds a place on his head and ruffles through his hair. “For good this time, and not only one. That’s an accomplishment if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Ah, excuse me?”, Evan shouts over the general chaos. “If this is over now, I would very much like to limit the Lonely borders a little – and by a little I mean a lot. They’re spread very far now, but we only need them around the house, so if you’d be so good as to”, he moves his hands as if trying to push them all away, “leave?”

Annabelle claps her hands. “Oh I think that’s a fantastic idea, Evan! Jude, what do you think about an after-ritual party at one of your cult’s churches? As far as I remember they are quite big.”

Jude turns to her, the hot molten wax of her body is dripping to the ground, hardening slowly, her eyes gleam like embers in the heart of an inferno. “Lit! I’m all in for turning Elias’ would-be-ritual into a rave! Let’s go!” She points to Helen without shooting flames at her. “Helen, I’m counting on you to get us all there!”

“Of course!”, Helen and Michael shout in unison, twisting their arms together like they have multiple joints except for just their elbow.

“Great! Let’s jam! Haven’t partied with you guys in a while! Let’s set something on fire! Annabelle, I’m counting on you getting some people in to fill the halls! Daisy, I’m counting on you to get rid of everyone worshipping the Eye – except for Jon of course, he’s… yeah, Jon, you’re singing again, no complaints except from us. Don’t pull that face!” This time she shoots a small flame at his feet, but Jon just watches it burn down on the dry earth.

“This is going to be great! Hey, Mike, Simon, let’s get those Vast powers going crazy! We’re going to float!” The tips of her hair start fuming as she keeps assigning more and more things to do. Simon and Mike fist bump, like Mike and Jude did before.

“This is going to be great!”

Helen holds the door open, while Michael stands next to it, making sure everyone makes it inside.

“This”, Jon says, as Annabelle and Oliver pull him towards the door, “was not supposed to escalate like this.”

“You said it yourself.” Daisy walks right behind him, her snarl gone, the bloodthirst barely more than a whisper in her eyes. “If you bring too many avatars together into one place – all you get is madness.”

When the door closes behind them, there is a bloody imprint on the yellow, where Elias’ nose collided with the wood. And then – after one blink – the door is gone entirely.

Evan stands there for a moment longer, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

He collects the empty pizza cartons they left behind, checks once more if he forgot anything, then he, too, retreats back to the mansion. And with every step the Lonely follows him, leaving the land behind him bare of trees and bushes and fog, leaves the world warm and comforting, and the moonlight strong and beautiful. The tree and undergrowth they’ve been hiding behind disappears taken away again, leaving nothing but open air around.

Martin follows the transformation with his eyes until he cannot follow it anymore. It passes over them, leaves them exposed to a now empty, but muddy grass field. Evan moves further up, the mansion and his shrinking figure diffusing in fog that grows thicker and thicker the closer he weaves the Lonely to the old walls.

Behind Martin, Tim is the first one to stand. He combs his hands through his hair, opens his mouth to say something, but stays silent nonetheless.

Sasha is the first one to speak. She doesn’t move, doesn’t really change her position, just blinks and turns her head towards Martin.

“What was that?”

And Martin has no answer for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was fun! This chapter was actually the second scene I wanted to write for this fic. It took a while to get it done because I had so many things I wanted to do! And I couldn't decide which things to leave out and which to include. But I think I did well in the end. I really, really enjoyed this and I hope you guys did, too.
> 
> A bunch of people (okay like two, but still) asked me if it's okay to make fanart of this and yes, it's very much okay, I would love it!
> 
> Next up: confrontation, explanation, and becoming


	22. Jon Sims’ guide to becoming the Archivist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming, explanation, and confrontation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I want: friendship, understanding, People Actually Letting Jon Explain Before Yelling At Him
> 
> Things I write: See above
> 
> ...
> 
> That's not quite true, I also write a lot of angst, but angst isn't scheduled for another two chapters I think. I need to check my outline.

Jon’s door actually has a bell nobody ever rings. It’s a newer addition made to the cottage before he moved in, but it’s there. Right between his door and the window overlooking the living room, a tiny white button on a wooden plaque with a piece of paper that says “Sims” stuck over the engraved “Tonner” underneath. Barely anybody ever notices it, even fewer ever use it. Most just knock or call out to him. So Jon is just a little surprised when his bell rings just a few minutes to three.

He just about got home from school, put his bag down, didn’t even start on dinner. Still, the bell rings and Jon calls a quick “Coming!” before closing his tap and setting down the pot he was about to fill with water.

Who could this even be? Daisy is still out hunting – after last night she needs a bit more than just a quick stretch – and he doesn’t expect her back anytime soon. Besides, she wouldn’t ring the bell. Just break and enter if she forgot her keys. It could be Martin, but he’s not even sure Martin knows he has a bell. It might be Mrs. Simmons. She did ask him last week if he would be so kind to mix her another anis tea mix for her wife – a present for her birthday that’s just on the doorstep of next week. If it is her, he will have to invite her in while he looks through his leftover mixes – or mix something while she’s here.

The bell rings again just as Jon opens the door.

It’s Tim. He’s still pressing his finger insistent on the tiny white button as Jon frowns up at him. He looks… not good. Jon has never seen him not smile, has never noticed how much of what makes Tim is the easy way he talks, the way he laughs and jokes and smiles. For a second until Tim takes his finger from the button, Jon has half a mind to check if this is actually the _real_ Tim and not a Stranger-imitation of him. But he doesn’t need to. The corners of Tim’s lip flicker upwards for a second, giving him back a small part of the Tim Jon knows and calls his friend.

“Oh good”, Tim says, “you’re okay.”

Sasha and Martin wait right behind him. Both of them breathe a sigh, then take a breath. It’s not quite a sound of relieve, it doesn’t come close to anything Jon has heard from them so far. Just like Tim, the two of them look awful. Martin’s eyes are red from lack of sleep, his hands kneading his bag strap like a lifeline. Sasha’s hair is dishevelled, her clothes are rumbled, she at least looks less tired than Tim and Martin.

“I”, Jon clears his throat, “Yes, I’m fine. Are- what happened to you? You look… tired.”

Tim laughs. It’s so far from his usual easy, airy laugh Jon just so keeps himself from flinching. “Yes, we, I think we all are. Tired. That’s a word. Sure.”

Jon opens his mouth, but he has no idea what he is supposed to say. Instead he steps out of the way and waves them in. Tim follows his invitation immediately, he kicks his shoes off at the door, then strides over to his sofa and lets himself fall into the cushions. Sasha thanks him and follows. Only Martin waits at the door.

“Martin?” Jon frowns. “Is… is there something wrong?”

Martin smiles down at him. Barely an imitation of his usual smile, nothing more than a move of muscles, lacking in all warmth, lacking all that is _Martin._

“Don’t worry about it”, he says. His voice carries something unsaid, his words hollow shells conveying nothing but their meaning.

“If you say so?”

Martin, too, lets himself in then, and takes his place on Jon’s sofa, squeezed onto the seats next to Sasha at the end furthest away from the armchair left for Jon. The distance is… endless. Vast even.

“Sit?”, Tim asks. It sounds like an order, like any refusal will have a consequence Jon won’t particularly enjoy.

He closes the door before he sinks into his armchair. “If you would like some tea, I can go and grab some cups?”

“We would like to have some hot brewed answers please”, Tim says. He sits closest to him, practically next to him if it wasn’t for the space between sofa and armchair.

“Answers? To what questions?”

“A few actually”, Sasha says then. “But let’s just start with something easy: There was a ritual yesterday.”

“Yes?” Jon’s hand finds a loose threat on his sleeve and twists it around one finger until it ends, then untwists it and starts again.

“No.” Tim brings his palm down harshly on the low table. He’s leaning forward, angled towards Jon. “No, we start with: What is an _Archivist_?”

Tim says it like an insult, like a swear word, like it’s rotten and mouldy. Archivist. No name left, only a title, only a definition, but not something as human as a name.

All Jon can do for a long moment is gape at him in silent disbelieve. This word, this _title,_ has no business being spoken by Tim’s voice. He has always kept his friends out of the supernatural, has always protected them to the best of his abilities.

In the end, his best wasn’t good enough as it so rarely is.

“Right”, Jon says. His hands in his lap shake. Why are they shaking, why is he shaking, this isn’t the worst, is it? They came over, he can tell them what happened, he can tell them he is of no danger to them. “I am so sorry.”

“No.” Tim’s voice is sharp, like a knife at his throat, like an explosive charge planted underneath his lungs. When he reaches out, Jon has to force himself not to flinch back, but his shaking hands won’t stop, he can’t stop.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you”, Jon says. “But these things are complicated. And I’m… I’m so sorry.”

Tim collects both his hands, holds them close between his, like a shell, like a shield. His fingers curl inwards, just to keep his grip, to stop his shaking.

“Don’t be sorry. Someone did this to you. I…” He shakes his head. “Shit, Jon, I’m so fucking sorry. We didn’t know. We didn’t…. This is so fucked.”

Jon swallows down a choked laugh. “These things usually are.”

“What are they?”, Sasha asks softly. “These things that…” She gestures towards him. “Did this to you?”

Jon takes a breath. “This… I mean… I think this will be a rather elaborate explanation if you want me to start at the beginning? I might, let me just get some tea for”

“No.” This time it’s Martin, who speaks up. “Absolutely not, you stay there, I’m going to make everyone tea.”

He gets up before Jon has a chance to answer. Tim is still holding his hands, and he uses it to his advantage when Jon tries to stand, too. He tugs at his hands and catches Jon in both arms when he falls forward.

“Stay here, Archivist, your boyfriend got this. You are up for a long, long talk I think.” His voice is still taunt, still anticipating the truths behind reality Jon’s story promises, but it doesn’t cut, doesn’t burn and bite and hurt.

“There will be things you might regret knowing”, Jon says as he manages to right himself again.

“There is nothing worse than ignorance.” Sasha says it like her own certain truth. The Eye, somewhere buried in the back of Jon’s mind, is bound to agree.

Yes, of course, knowledge – in any form or shape – is important, is necessary. Life needs knowledge. What would you do if you didn’t know you had to eat? Starve. What would you do if you didn’t know you had to breathe? Suffocate. What would you do if you had no knowledge? Die.

Jon stops. The Eye agrees, lists on what happens to people, who don’t know things, people who, in the history of the world, died because of their lack of knowledge. And Sasha looks at him, really looks at him, with piercing eyes, with hunger hidden behind sympathy – not hidden. Never hidden. Lurking, waiting to be allowed out, waiting to replace everything else. There is an Eye behind her eyes, a tiny thing, a second iris in the corner of both her eyes, waiting to emerge, waiting to wander further into her skin and fester like a tumour to grow and rise and _see._

It is, however, not his Eye. It is her own, a different aspect, a flavour of Fear Jon has never tasted before. And if left unnoticed, it will become hers entirely.

Martin comes back with their tea, handing out cups and milk and sugar. Jon curls his hands around his cat mug, Martin’s hand still lingers on his shoulder. He hasn’t taken his seat yet.

“So?”, Sasha prompts, “You were at the ritual yesterday?”

“I was indeed.” He breathes in deeply. The scent of ginger is dampened by the honey Martin stirred into his tea. “But I think before we get into the rituals – yes there are more than one, or rather there were once. Before all that… I think you have to understand the … well, you want the entire picture? We’ll start with the frame then.”

Jon takes a sip from his tea, steels himself for what is to come.

“Something you have to understand is that in the end it all comes back to fear. It always is about fear. And that’s why we call these things the Fears. There are… entities. We don’t know much about them, except that they demand to be fed and if we don’t comply they… feed on us. So what we give them is fear. The fear of death, the fear of pain, the fear of prying eyes, just raw unfiltered fear.”

Martin clutches his shoulder a little harder, it doesn’t hurt, but Jon rests his hands over his anyway. He takes it.

“Like the Lonely”, Martin says.

“Like the Lonely”, Jon repeats. “What you do at the centre is basically sorting the statements that are actually fear-touched from clearly false once. You investigate them and try to find out what Fear they belong to.”

“Like loneliness”, Tim says, nodding, “and filth, and violence.”

Jon nods and takes another sip.

“But what are they? These… Fears?”, Sasha asks, her brows furrowed. The Eye in her is not satisfied with this answer so far.

“There are”, Jon continues, “fourteen fears. A fifteenth one is currently in the process of getting born, so maybe there will be fifteen soon.”

Silence follows his words. Sasha and Martin just take it in, puzzling out everything they know, everything they figured out so far, trying to fit it into the world they thought they knew. Then, Tim claps his hands together.

“Right! There are fourteen nightmare fears around, cool, we know eight of those, which I think is a great score. So, what are the others?”

“I”, Jon frowns. He could just tell them, talk them through a feast of fear and loss and disappointment. He could show them, could force them to see through his eyes, through his Eyes to make them understand. Neither of these options sound especially pleasant to any of them. He sighs deeply. “I suppose this is the easiest part, so which Fears do you know then?”

“Well the Lonely for one, filth, capital S-Spiders”, Tim counts them off on his fingers, “death, violence and pain, the strange, meat”, he shudders, “and confusion, or maybe illusions, we’re not sure there.”

“Yes, those sound like a good basis to work with.” Jon sits up a little, rights himself, but he doesn’t let go of Martin’s hand. “The Lonely is rather obvious, it’s the fear of isolation, of being alone and forgotten, and”

“Hold on!” Sasha holds up one hand as she gets up and hurries to grab her bag to her feet. “I have to write this down, just wait a mo- aha!” With an open notebook and a pen, she looks up again. “Please continue.”

“Uhm… so, as I was saying, the Lonely is about being alone, being forgotten, being left behind. That’s why people also call it The One Alone, or Forsaken. I think the Lukases like the last one the most. A lot of it has to do with fog, as you saw yesterday. Though not every manifestation of the Lonely is a foggy forest. Sometimes it’s a foggy sea, or a foggy street, or even”

“A foggy graveyard?”, Tim prompts.

“I… I suppose it could be, but what I was going to say was: A street full of people none of which know or recognise you. You become anonymous in the masses.”

“Oh.”

Sasha’s pen flies over her paper as quickly as she can write.

“Then Filth.” Jon makes a face. “We call it usually the Corruption, some call it the Crawling Rot, but I don’t like that one it’s more… restricting. It’s…”

“Bugs”, Martin says, “and mould.”

Jon turns his face for them to see the left side and hooks a finger into his collar to pull it down a little. “This is what the Corruption does to its victims.”

Over his cheeks and down his throat until they disappear under his shirt, the scars of Jane Prentiss’ worms stand up darker against his skin. They curl around themselves, writhing still after healing. Jon touches one scar on his cheek, follows its curve with his finger. The touch – barely there, like a breath – shoots a wave of nausea through his body. His finger wanders lower, over his chin and down his throat. Some of the scars there are harsh lines, not curling, but straight, stretched out. They’re relicts, the proof of fear, the imprint, the mark he bears. These scars stem from his own nails, they speak of desperate hands trying to dig out what was left of the intrusion his body endured.

“Jon…” Martin breathes his name. He doesn’t reach out, not yet, but his hand holds on to him, holds himself upright as his eyes track the marks the Corruption has left on his body. Sasha’s pen stopped for a moment, her eyes raking themselves over the scars, the Eye within her taking it in, drinking it up like water after a lifetime of drought.

“Disease, filth, you cannot rid yourself off the feeling that something’s crawling on your skin, slowly burrowing inside, poisoning your body”, Jon says, “Mould does that, parasites, it’s also…” He chuckles. “Love. The feeling of unwanted fingers on your skin. Someone you love, someone who loves you, but it’s not right, it’s crooked and leaves you hurt.”

“Oh god”, Tim says. “Oh god the- the mistletoe statement. I… was his, was his lover actually some abusive asshole? I thought he… I thought it was actually mould?”

Jon lets go of his collar. “It’s likely for it to be actual mould. The Corruption is… unsettling in regard to love. Its Avatars call it “love”, but it’s barely even companionship. Just a parasite feeding on them and the fear they feed it.”

Sasha looks up from the notes she is making again. “Avatars?”

“We’ll get there, don’t worry.” Jon curls both hands around his mug again. “Now, I believe the next one on your list was the Spider?”

Tim nods, Sasha underlines something on her sheet.

“Jon, you don’t have to go on”, Martin says, still at his side, “We can take a break if it’s too much.”

But Jon shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He takes Martin’s hand in his again, tugs him closer. He takes the invitation and perches on the armrest next to him. Jon leans into his side.

“The Spider, the Web, the Mother of Puppets. It’s spiders, it’s control, the fear that your actions aren’t your own, you’re controlled, manipulated, but unaware or unable to break it.”

“Like an addiction?”, Sasha asks, still writing.

“Very much so.” Jon clears his throat. “Then there’s Death, more commonly known as the End. Or Terminus. An easy fear as far as easy goes. The fear of death. Elias is very afraid of the End, he has his own safety measures hidden underneath his library.” _Or what is left of it now._

Sasha makes a “go on” motion with her hand and Jon does:

“Now, violence and pain. Those two are not the same thing. Let’s start with… pain. The fear of pain is called the Desolation, the Lightless Flame, Devastation sometimes, there are many names for this one.” He chuckles to himself. “There are many names for many things that scare people, I’m afraid. But the Desolation is… fire. It’s pain and loss, especially senseless pain.” He holds up his burned hand. “Pain for pain’s sake.”

The scar tissue is still angry red even after years. Cold scarcely seeps through his skin, but heat bites and pierces. Nothing will ever sooth the reminder of flesh and skin melting off his hand in drips of liquid fat and muscles scorching under Jude’s wax.

Martin’s arm winds its way around his shoulders.

Tim swears under his breath. “That’s what happened? Those are… these things are why everyone thinks you were in an accident? Is that it?”

“Partly. But they are also very right, a building collapsed on top of me, but we’ll get there in time.” Jon lowers his hand again. “Now, I believe I am missing the violence part. That’s another one. The Slaughter. Bloodthirst, burst of violence, war mainly. The Slaughter thrives in wartimes. And before you ask: No, I don’t bear a Slaughter mark.”

Sasha eyes him curiously, trying to puzzle out if he’s lying, but he’s not. And the Eye lets off.

“Next one is the Stranger, the I Do Not Know You. Fear of the unknown, of strangers. It’s the feeling of something just not being right. There’s something out of place, there’s something missing, but you can’t pin it down even though it should be glaringly obvious.” Jon hesitates. The mark he took from Nikola isn’t a visible one, not like Jude’s and Jane’s and even Daisy’s. It runs deeper, burrowed into his mind.

“Now meat”, he continues, “Meat is… an interesting category. More commonly known as the Flesh, the fear that we are all nothing more than, well, flesh. Bred to be fed on. It’s… it’s a young fear. Ascended through the mass of animals in slaughterhouses just waiting to be processed into meat.”

Tim swallows audibly. “That’s disgusting.”

“You think that now you never want to find a manifestation first hand. It’s… unsettling. And often goes hand in hand with the Corruption, as you can imagine. Meat, especially after lying around for so long, attracts rot and flies.”

“Yes, I can imagine, cool.” He shudders. “Don’t like that one, nope.”

“It is deeply unsettling, I agree.”

“Moving on!”

Sasha looks up from her notes, surely intending to disagree, but the promise of even more has the Eye listen.

“The last one on your list is the Spiral. The Twisting Deceit, It Is Not What It Is, or simply: It Is Lies. It is the fear of madness. Your mind is lying to you and those lies are true. The world as you know it is wrong and you’re losing your mind in it. It’s… well, I suppose you have met Michael already”, Jon looks up to Martin, “The Distortion and its door.”

Martin takes the hand Jon offers. “Then… You mean he was… He’s like Annabelle, one of the Fears?”

“Ah, no, he is… no. While the Distortion is a part of the Spiral, a splinter of power embedded in twisting corridors, Michael and in extension Helen are simply… well, more than servants. That’s sure. They are not like other Avatars.”

This time Sasha interrupts him. “What are those? Avatars?”

“Servants”, it’s the easy answer, “we feed the Fears and in turn gain powers from them to feed them even more.”

“And you feed them fear”, Sasha taps her pen on her clipboard over and over again.

“Yes.”

“What if you stop feeding them?”

“We die.”

Sasha’s scribbling stops, three heads turn to Jon, who leans further back into his seat.

“You die”, Martin repeats. It sounds like a question and an accusation in once, like he expected something bad, but reality proved him wrong to believe in anything that might be soft enough not to cut through skin and hopes.

“It’s… yes, we, we die.” Jon tightens his grip on his mug. “We were humans once, you know? Before… all of it. And the entities are not, well they are fear, but I wouldn’t call them sentient. They only feed. And an Avatar is usually someone, who fed them before. Either through their own fear, or through the fear they brought to others. And, well, there are limits to what a human can do. So we… we become something else. Something wrong. And once you get used to fear all the time, once they cannot feed from you anymore, they will demand something else. Otherwise they… consume you.”

“You will die”, Martin repeats one last time. The arm he has around Jon’s shoulders tightens for a moment, just a second, to hold him closer still.

“So”, Tim says after a moment, “you’re one of them. An Avatar?”

“Yes, some call us Vessels or plainly just Monsters. But yes, an Avatar.”

“Right. So is that like the 2009 movie flop Avatar or the cartoon one?”

Jon blinks. “I- what?”

“This isn’t funny, Tim”, Martin snaps at his side. Jon has half a mind to lay his hand on his thigh while the Eye is busy informing him about both franchises.

“Oh come on, the mood in here was dead the entire time!” He holds up his hands. “Hey, we three would die if we stopped eating, right? So isn’t that the same?”

“It’s not!”

“Actually, Martin”, Jon says, “he’s right. It is a lot like eating. Just not, actual food.”

“See?”, Tim points to Jon. “Listen to your boyfriend.”

Next to him, Martin swats at Tim, but Jon’s brain lags behind for a moment. Tim just called him Martin’s boyfriend. Oh they will have to have a talk after this.

“Aside from the feeding Fear things”, Sasha says, tapping her pen again, “What else do you do?”

“What else do I do?”, Jon repeats dumbfounded. “I teach my P3 class, usually care for my plants in the afternoon, I get a lot of house guests here, if that counts?”

“No, I mean”, she circles her pen around her fingers. “For the Fears?”

“Oh.” Jon shrugs. “I… nothing, I guess? Nothing really, it’s not like an actual job. Some… some of the entities have a hierarchy. Like the Stranger, where the Ringmaster is the most powerful. Or the Web. Annabelle – you’ve met her before, Martin. She is the Weaver, the one who puppeteers others around, someone whose influence even surpasses those of simple Spiders. And I’m the Archivist, many of the Watchers listen to me, but I don’t really… do much.”

“Watchers”, Sasha repeats. “One of the six Fears we’re missing I suppose?”

“Ah”, Jon pulls a face, “yes, well, there are indeed a few more. Uhm, does anybody want some more tea? These things can be a bit… draining.”

“Nope”, Sasha says the same moment Tim holds out his mug and says: “Yes, please.”

Jon reaches for his mug, but Martin is quicker. Before he can get up, Martin also plucks his mug from his hands.

“Don’t worry about it.” His hand presses down on Jon’s shoulder, just a little, just enough to keep him seated.

Jon fights his smile, fights the warmth that climbs up his chest, filling his lungs and his heart and his head with the suffocating cotton of unfiltered adoration for the man before him. They have to talk after this, they have to talk. And it will break him apart again.

“Thank you, Martin”, he says. Against his better judgement he lets his hand linger on Martin’s for a while. Just to feel his warmth. Just to have someone to remember.

It takes Martin several minutes until he returns. Minutes, Sasha uses to scribble down more notes, ask Jon more question.

“These Fears, are they something like gods or fairies?”

“Neither, they are like eldritch mushrooms that grow on the bark of reality. It’s only one thing, Fear, but it’s separated into different categories. They suck nutrition in form of fear from the tree and usually don’t give anything back, like a negative symbiotic relationship.”

“But how does the general public not know about these Fears?”

“Roughly”, he hesitates, but the Eye supplies him with what he’s looking for, “roughly 0.01% of the current world population ever had a run in or just a brush with the supernatural. That’s 780000 out of 7 billion people. And an actual memorable run in that’s both directly correlating with the Fears, and still survivable is something even fewer people experienced. So let’s say from these 780000 people only half have an active encounter – that’s actually not the right percentage, it’s closer to 37.253%, but for the sake of easy let’s go with 50%. Now half of them saw something weird, but it wasn’t something major, not even something that happened to them. But the other half, 390000 people, had something happen to them. Someone trapped them in a dark basement with the walls closing in on them, someone hunted them for sports, just something. Now, half of them survives – that’s also not true, there are different rates for different entities, the Buried for example lets their victims escape very rarely, while the Spiral often lets people go and recollects them like a cat playing with a mouse. But we now have 195000 survivors in total. Imagine this, we started with 7.8 billion and end up with 195000, from which roughly 15% actually tell people about what happened. That’s 9750 people who actually had an encounter with the Fear mixed in with…” The Eye gleams and vibrates in his head, providing number after number after number. “roughly 50000 false claims of the supernatural in your entire centre. So 19% of all your statements are actually true, though some of your departments have a significantly higher chance of finding something than others. Oh my, that was… a lot.”

Jon sags back in his armchair. The Eye nods as much as a Fear god in the back of his head can nod. It enjoys displays of knowledge, exposition and nothing else, story is important, will always be important, but raw unfiltered knowledge is like candy.

Sasha and Tim stare at him with wildly different expressions. Tim’s shoulders hang down, his hand half on its way to Jon’s in an aborted attempt at comfort, while Sasha sits attentive, like a cat about to pounce, about to catch and dig its claws into the unmoving body of an exhausted bird that fell from the safety of its nest.

“Are you okay?”, Tim asks.

“Yes, I…” He gestures vaguely at his head, “I sometimes have a hard time stopping… this.”

“The evil Fear god that lives in your head.”

“Yes, Tim. Though it’s neither evil nor actually a god.”

“Well”, Martin says with three cups of tea on a tray, “I think they actually are pretty evil.”

“I mean”, Jon takes his mug, “how evil can something be that doesn’t understand what it does is actually evil? They have no concept of good and evil.”

“But I do”, Martin says, handing Tim his tea, “and I’m judging them hard.”

“As fascinating as this debate is”, Sasha taps her pen against her notebook, “I would very much like to know the missing Fears, then we can judge them.”

Impatient. Jon suspected her aspect to be closer to his, but the Eye he feeds is slow, patient, waits until enough trust is built, until enough time has passed for the fear of discovery to settle in and weight a mind down, claws at it until it breaks, gives in, and talks. She’s not like this. If he is the first person to share a secret with, she is the first person to find it out herself, to pull it out like a weed with its roots still attached.

“Yes”, Jon curls his hands around his mug as Martin, once again, takes his place at his side. “You’re missing a few very basic once, so this will be quick.” He takes a deep breath before he continues:

“One of the oldest Fears is the Dark, very easy to explain. Fear of darkness, of what we can’t see, simple. The Hunt is another easy one. The fear of being hunted down, of being stalked, simply being prey to something bigger and meaner. I believe many of your scouts fell to it.”

Sasha stops writing. “Our scouts?”

“Yes, some of them. Though I believe Trevor Herbert was a Hunter long before he came to Leitner. It is rather hard to keep track of them if you don’t know which pack they move in.”

“Pack”, Sasha repeats, “you mean like… wolfs?”

“Uhm… I mean like… No, not really.” Jon takes a sip from his tea, then rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “It’s… okay, the dynamics of how each Fear’s Avatars organise themselves vary. The Desolation has its cult, as does the Dark. The Corruption just… finds each other for some reason. We just, I mean, it’s not like many Watchers actively seek me out, but sometimes someone shows up or calls about what happened with other Avatars. It was… uh, Elain? I think, yes, Elain Taylor, who came to me because a Dark Avatar kept messing with their vision, so I had to – you know? Make a trip to the People’s Church and talk to Maxwell Rayner. That’s what we do, we have… me, who acts somehow like”

“Their boss”, Tim suggests.

Jon tries his hardest not to let his face betray the distaste he has for being called the watcher’s “boss”, but he must not do a great job. Tim grins widely. He pats Jon’s knee and says:

“Yeah, cool, so you’re the spooky boss, good to know.”

He hates this even more.

“Okay”, Sasha says before this can go any further, “but what does that have to do with the Hunters?”

“Ah. Yes.” Jon sits up straighter. “If they need assistance with something they track down another Hunter, who might be willing to help them. Some Hunters hunt in a pack they assembled over time, like your scouts. There are Hunter families around that stretch generations back, but those are very rare. Mainly, Hunters stick to people they chose themselves, disregarding blood or any family ties. They are not like the Lukases or… the Fairchilds even.”

“Fairchild”, Sasha mumbles as she writes the name down. “I know that name, it came up in some of the statements.”

“Yes, that’s very likely. The Fairchild family is not actually a family by blood, it’s mainly a… collection of Vast Avatars under one name. Simon Fairchild stole the name and all money it entails to build his own empire around him.”

“So the Simon Fairchild we read about isn’t actually hte real Simon Fairchild?”

“Oh no, he’s…”, Jon hesitates, “No, he’s not the original one, he’s just using the name. Simon is one of the oldest Avatars I’ve met so far, maybe even the oldest, who’s still very much alive and enjoying his state. There is surely an Avatar of the End out there who regrets his life deeply. And if you’re born somewhere around 1550 your name will probably not hold up over 500 years.”

“He’s _what_?”, Tim yells. “That’s what being an, an Avatar does? Holy shit Jon, how old are you actually?”

Jon smiles. “No, Tim, that’s what the Vast does to you. Or the End. Some Fears give you powers to live extremely long, some don’t. I have the life span of just any human, maybe a few years more if I increase my – what would you call it? Fear output maybe.”

“Okay”, Sasha says, “and the Fairchilds worship the Vast is what you said? Does that have anything to do with skydiving and space? Is it fear of heights?”

“Very close, yes. The Vast, Simon likes to call it the Falling Titan, so that’s another word you can use for the Entities; Titans.”

Sasha flicks through her pages back to the beginning.

“So”, Jon continues when she looks up at him again, “the Vast is the fear of heights, open spaces, vertigo, infinity. Space, the sky, and the ocean fall into its domain simply because all three are in fact wide open spaces that can seem infinite. Mike, I’m sure you remember him if you were at the ritual.”

The three of them nod, though Sasha doesn’t look up from her writing.

“He uses the Vast mostly for freefalling.”

“Oh that’s cool”, Tim leans back, his arm propped up on the armrest, “like free skydiving, right?”

“Uhm, yes, except it’s for people who are afraid of heights and you fall for eternity.”

“Oh”, Tim takes his arm down, “significantly less cool.”

“But if there’s the fear of heights”, Martin says next to Jon, “shouldn’t there also be the fear of close spaces, uhm, claustrophobia?”

“Yes, there is.” Jon leans closer to his side and, unprompted, Martin’s arm loops back around his shoulders.

“The Buried, the Choke, Too Close I Cannot Breathe, it’s the opposite of the Vast. Surprisingly, the Vast and the Buried share a domain: The Ocean. However for the Buried it’s the fear of drowning, of the deep pressure pushing into you the deeper you dive.”

“And of deep sea fish”, Tim adds. “Those are terrifying.”

Jon blinks. “No, I think those belong to the Stranger.”

“We’re missing one”, Sasha says, her pen still, her eyes fixated on Jon. “The Watchers?”

“Ah… yes.” With a weary sigh, Jon takes a quick sip of his tea. “The Watchers. Well, we serve the Eye. The Beholding. The Ceaseless Watcher. As you might have guessed already, it’s the fear of being watched, of having your secrets revealed, the need for knowledge even if it destroys you. The Eye is a collector of sorts, an Archivist on its own. It can also feed on the second-hand fear you experience when reading statements. Your centre feeds the Eye as much as Magnus’ Library does.” _Or did. We’ll see how long it’ll take Elias to rebuild what is gone._ “And all of you have fed it in some way or another.”

Sasha underlines something harshly. “So you’re saying we are Avatars, too?”

“No. You’re aligned with the Eye, if at any point of your life you feel the need to pledge yourself to the symbiotic mushroom of fear then you can do so. You three are, mostly, human.”

“Mostly?” She looks up. The Eye in her blinks, unsure if it wants to stay unknown any longer.

Jon tightens his grip around his mug. He doesn’t want to have this conversation.

“Sasha”, he says nonetheless, “have you ever felt the need to know something, the pull towards a truth you cannot live without? You know there’s something there, it sits in the back of your head, like you forgot it momentarily. And you absolutely need to find out what it is no matter the cost.”

Silence stretches on after his words. Sasha stares at him, while Tim stares at her. Martin’s arm around Jon’s shoulder gripped onto his upper arm and holds him still. For a long moment nothing moves. The Eye in Sasha’s eyes shivers, basks in the glow of finally – finally! – being known. But as much as it feels like a revelation, there are no choices to be made today. Sasha’s connection to the Eye may be stronger than what Tim and Martin have, but it is not yet a call.

“How do we get rid of it?”, Tim asks without looking at Jon.

“You… I suppose you could just quit the centre.” _It wasn’t this easy with the Library._ “But it would stay.”

“But how can we stop it?” This time Tim turns to him, this time he pleads rather than asks.

And Jon hates the answer he has for him: “Blind yourself. Take your eyes away.”

The same way you distance yourself from all the other Fears: Take what they communicate through. Take your eyes to escape Beholding, take your dreams to escape Terminus, take your ears to escape the Slaughter. It all boils down to communication. A servant who’s unable to receive basic instructions? Useless.

“I want to add”, Jon says, “that your current state is not one leading you to become an Avatar. The important thing about Becoming is to want it. You have to choose it. And the most important part”, Jon sighs, “well to actually transform you have to die.”

Martin’s grip nearly turns painful. He whips his head around, his tea forgotten on the table.

“You have to die”, he repeats. Jon nods.

Next to him, Tim’s shoulders sag as his body loses whatever tension had him sitting upright. His eyes wander up and down Jon’s body, lingering on his scars, the one over his throat the longest. Even Sasha’s pen sits still for another long moment.

“How?”, Tim asks. He doesn’t have to say more for Jon to understand.

“It’s a rather long story.”

Sasha turns her page. “We have time.”

“But we don’t have to”, Martin says quickly. “If you’re uncomfortable at any point, we can stop. You can take a break.”

Jon rests his hand on Martin’s for a moment. “It’s okay. Well then, let’s make a statement then. Statement of Jonathan Sims, the Archivist, regarding his time as an intern in Magnus’ Library and subsequent ascension as an Avatar. Statement begins.”

Jon takes a deep breath, then he starts:

“I suppose I was an easy target from the beginning. I never hunted the supernatural like some might do, never really took any joy in knowing if the flickering lights were due to an unscrewed lightbulb or a passing spirit. Even now, I don’t really want to know. And isn’t that an interesting thought for someone of the Eye?”

He chuckles to himself.

“When I was a child, I had a… run in with the supernatural. Both my parents died before my sixth birthday and I grew up under my grandma’s care, even though I’m not really sure you could call it “care” even then. She was never malicious, never outright hated me, but she also didn’t want me there. I think she would have loved me as a grandchild, but not as a son to live with. It was not entirely her fault, I assume, as I was truly a difficult child. Annoying as people liked to say, and I suppose I did deserve some of the punishments she held for me.

“However, I was easy to keep away from mischief and wanderings if I had a good book to entertain me. And, well, due to my very picky reading habits, my grandma just collected all kinds of books she could get her hands on, not worrying about how age appropriate these were. And that’s how she got her hands on a shiny cardboard book with the name “A Guest for Mister Spider”. It had a tiny sticker in the front that simply said “Property of Jonah Magnus”, as all these books do.

“I will not bore you with the details of the book, what happened was wrung from me by force and by free will alike and this is not about what happened in my childhood. What I will tell you: it was a Web touched book. The spider residing inside didn’t kill me, but it killed someone in front of me. From then on, I was marked.”

With his hand he rubs over his arm, as Martin holds him closer, closer even.

“Still, this was not enough to push me towards the Fears. It surely helped, but it wasn’t the reason. What you have to understand about these encounters, they leave a mark. And this mark can, depending on how strong it is, give you nightmares for years and years. I found a Magnus book when I was eight, and I still had nightmares when I was at university.”

He shivers slightly at the memory.

“They were frequent but irregular. I sometimes went weeks without any, but then months with barely three hours of sleep. My best friend, Georgie Barker, was still in the process of building up a reputation in the, well, _mundane_ supernatural underworld. And I knew some people through her. A medium once tried to diagnose where my nightmares came from and came to the conclusion that my parents tried to communicate with me. I have to admit I didn’t tell them about the book, they never really had a chance. Another few friends suggested drugs and I was desperate for anything, so I very well tried some. They actually worked for a couple of months, but they lost their effectiveness eventually. The nightmares were like a virus, mutating to bypass all cures.

“It was then, in my third semester when Georgie heard rumours about the Magnus Library. It has always been a constant topic of gossip, but what we heard then peaked our interest. They said, in the old archives of the library works someone, who can take nightmares away from you.”

He smiles, slowly, painfully.

“It was a very specific rumour. And one that didn’t hold up when examined under light. The friend of a friend’s uncle knows someone who knows, and so on. But Georgie had tried to get more information on the library for one of her episodes, so the nightmare story definitely gave us an in.

“Our plan was simple. I was to go in, ask for the archivist, and then have him either shoo me back out or listen to what I had to say. It was… a funny operation looking back on it now. Georgie equipped me with an old tape recorder to record the conversation we had, just to make sure we had evidence against accusations in the paranormal scene, but also to have evidence we could easily destroy.”

Only now, the four of them can hear the faint whirring of a tape recorder, far off, nearly silent.

“So I took my tape recorder and found a receptionist who was willing to call down the archives to someone named Jonathan Ardwick, the newly appointed head archivist. Although newly appointed might be a misnomer, he had been working there for a good few years and he had lost a good few assistants over these years. None of them had quit, but by the time I visited them, there were only two left: Colin and Keara.

“I met both of them that day and they seemed very proper people. Then, with my tape recorder ready, I had my appointment with the former Archivist, my predecessor so to say. He was in no way an imposing man, a few centimetres taller than me, but he was stronger, always ready to solve his problems with a good fist fight. I never disliked him, though I couldn’t help but find him peculiar for some odd reason. Pursuing knowledge had always seemed the highest goal to me, hence why I was studying to become a teacher, but he listened to my statement like it was a duty he had to fulfil despite hating it to no end.

“I kept telling him what happened in all details I remembered and even some more. By the end he sat in his chair, his head on his palm, and I cried on the uncomfortable plastic chair I had been given. He thanked me and told me to leave.”

Martin’s other hand finds Jon’s and intertwines their fingers, but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t interrupt.

“Colin and Keara waited outside for me, had something ready to drink, let me sit down. They were, as I said, good people. And I don’t want to make it seem like Jonathan was a bad person, far from it, he just… I think he didn’t like to work with people, who didn’t know about the Fears. He fed from them, but he didn’t want to be involved into their struggles. All he wanted was to find a way to rid the world of all fourteen Fears. To completely destroy them.”

A noble goal, yet so unattainable it always makes Jon smile. He isn’t cynical enough to confuse an earnest belief for a chance with naivety.

“It was then when Elias approached me. I was about to leave, still a little lost and unsure if any of that was conductive to my nightmares, I hadn’t even had time to switch off the tape recorder. And Elias, as if waiting for this very moment, offered me a job there, at his archives. And even then, confused and afraid, it made no sense. I was still a student, I lived in Oxford, I was studying to become a teacher, I had no practical experience in library science. I jobbed as a tutor for school children regularly. The most I usually had to deal with was parents asking me if I could please teach their children French, too, and I had to explain that it didn’t matter if they’d pay me double, because I simply couldn’t speak French. Elias, however, was not an enraged parent not knowing who to turn to and letting the poor student of their choice sit through their swearing fits. Elias was the head of the library. And he just offered me a job.

“So I told him no. No, I live in Oxford, I can’t take a job for a library in London. It wouldn’t be impossible, it takes less than two hours to get from London to Oxford and back. But I did not want to take this position. And Elias smiled. He nodded, told me he understood, but he would like to offer me a position as an intern. He would pay me the regular wage the archival assistants where paid, and I would only have to work on weekends, and during my semester breaks. It was the perfect deal.”

He shakes his head.

“I didn’t want to take it. I didn’t want to. I had… some suspicions, some ideas of how things were connected. And I was wrong with all of them, but it didn’t matter in the end. None of it mattered. I didn’t want to take the job, but I took it anyway.

“Georgie later on asked me why over and over again and I sat there unable to answer. I didn’t know. All I could do was show her the tape. We listened to it many times that night, taking it apart, analysing everything said, but we couldn’t find anything. There was some static when I talked to the head archivist and some static when I talked to Elias again, but we chalked it up to the tapes and moved on. Now I know it wasn’t the tapes. It was them, and the Eye lacing their words with power.”

He sighs deeply, the weight on his shoulders shifting as he finally, finally comes to the very part they are waiting for.

“So I started as an intern. First, on weekends only. Colin and Keara held some pity for me, but Jonathan was rarely there to really tell me what to do. He was well on his way to becoming the Archivist. You see, there can only ever be one Archivist, the Eye chooses them, though more on accident than actual favour. It was more Elias choice, who kept then feeding his Archivist with his books, his theories even, all the knowledge about the Fears he has.”

_Had. Past. How much survived the fire yesterday? Too little to feed another Archivist. Barely enough to feed Jonah himself._

“I couldn’t really do much, I barely even knew what to do. As I said, I studied to become a teacher. So instead I took phone calls and sorted through the archive’s mail and simply googled what an archivist did. It said preserving and organising the documents within an archive was the main skill they had to have, but nobody was doing any of it so, that’s what I did. Archiving, without much skill though. I digitalised books – not those famous Magnus books, they didn’t work with the copy machine and scanner, and apparently even broke one.

“The thing is, it was impossible for me to take over the role of Archivist when Jonathan was already this far in his becoming. But… the Eye seemed to really enjoy my idea of preserving old letters, writing them by hand when the computers were acting up again, making sure the originals wouldn’t get damaged. That’s how I met a couple of other Watchers, I asked about proper archiving etiquette. And maybe the Eye’s Archivist is called that because the Eye likes the idea of organisation. But what happened very quickly was a shift.

“It wasn’t obvious at first. Jonathan needed less and less to feed the Eye, Elias thought he fed on passers-by – I heard his encouragement speech on it once. I, on the other hand, took up more time there, even borrowed some of the old letters to make sure I could transcribe them over the week when I was in Oxford. When people came in to talk to the Archivist I sometimes just let them talk to me – at first because neither of the other assistants was available, later simply because it felt right. And I started to keep tape recorders on me, all the time, to make sure I could record what was happening, to show it Georgie afterwards, too.”

The whirring of tape in the background swells for a moment, just a heartbeat, then it slowly winds down.

“And the Library was where I collected all my scars.”

He lifts his hand from Martin’s just to trace along the line across his throat.

“Jane attacked the archives at one point, but her only target was Jonathan, the supposed Archivist. The Avatars didn’t really communicate back then, didn’t really… they weren’t very organised. Except for those, who led their cults. So Jonathan tried to hunt them down, tried to find allies among them. He managed to collect a good few scars himself over time. Unfortunately, he lost his powers over time. It was slowly. His compulsion became weaker at first, Jude didn’t so much as flinch when he tried his questions. He also became a frequent victim of some kidnappings – as did I. A couple of times they even mixed us up and went after the Archivist’s tracks, which unfortunately led them to me. Some, not many, turned away still believing I was a foil set up to protect the real Archivist. Annabelle thought so, Mike did, too. Nikola found me rather entertaining, but she, too, cared more for the Archivist than some little assistant. However, there are things you cannot hide from.”

A shiver works its way down his spine. Martin’s hand finds his again, holds it tightly.

“Hunters. Daisy was… well, she still is of the Hunt. Back then she was still part of the sectioned police officers. They investigate all… unusual cases. Everything supernatural. She looked into my case and at first, she, too, thought me nothing more than an assistant, as Keara and Colin were. Just someone to do the dirty work. She watched me do my re-organisation tasks, pick up the phone, bring in post. But she never let off. And then, after long months of slow becoming I had no idea were happening at all, she took matters into her own hands. And decided to kill me.”

Tim gasps. “She…?” He can’t ask, can’t interrupt just yet. His eyes are wide, his hands shake. But Jon just smiles.

“She wanted to. But she didn’t because of Helen, the Distortion. Helen has a deep rooted hatred for both Jonathan and Elias. She was an assistant once before me, and if anything, she wanted to see Jonathan pay, not me. Unfortunately, when Helen arrived to my rescue, Daisy had already dragged me to her preferred killing spot and”, he makes a sharp gesture with his thumb over the scar, “slit my throat.

“I didn’t die then. It might have been better, but I lived. By then, I was already too powerful to die by mundane ways. This was when I figured out what was happening to me, but I had no clue as to how I could reverse it. Elias, would be no help at all, he was hellbent on making Jonathan the “most powerful Archivist to have ever lived”. To help him destroy the Fears, he said.”

Jon chuckles.

“It wasn’t even a good lie. He simply wanted to use him as a tool for his own ritual, to make sure the world fell under his rule. And it took him a long time to make sure his Archivist was ready. In my last university year, the assistants were instructed to find information on a Web ritual, even though we were sure we would have noticed any suspicious Web movement months before already. Still, we did it, digging through books, looking out for any news from Hilltop Road, a well known spider nest. I even asked Daisy to keep her ears and eyes open. What we found instead – or rather what I found, was a profound truth with the power to change the world: The rituals, all of them, were flawed. It was impossible, it will always be impossible, to open the door to our world for one Fear alone. You need to bring them all, and you need to unite them under the Eye to make it possible, simply because the Eye doesn’t interfere with them, it only ever watches.

“I wanted to tell it to Jonathan. If the rituals have no chance to succeed anyway, why should we try sabotaging them? But when I arrived at the Library, the newest ritual, the Watcher’s Crown, had already started, with the Archivist as the centre. With Jonathan as its focus.”

It’s a vile story, deadly, but Jon can’t stop his smirk.

“I ran in. Determined to stop this madness, to save whoever was left there, maybe even drag Jonathan out by his hair, I hadn’t yet decided. And I never would. I fought my way through the masses of fleeing people – human, mostly – towards the stairs and then down. The moment I stepped into the archives, the ritual collapsed around the building. And with the ritual, the archives, too, caved in above me. I –“

He takes a breath, deep, steadying.

“I don’t remember what happened exactly, I just remember pain and darkness and then nothing at all. The Library still stood tall, but the archives were gone. Buried under bricks and cement.

_I wonder how much of it is left now._

“I woke up two months later, in a hospital. Georgie told me about it when I got home again, how Daisy had gone down to look for me – she said she had found Colin and Keara dead, Jonathan’s body unrecognisable, but as a Hunter she had… her ways of identifying him. I wasn’t breathing anymore, my heart didn’t beat, but my mind was still somehow there. I was dead and yet I woke up. I made a choice there, chose to live, to _become_. And, well, that’s me now. The Archivist.”

Jon nods, one last time.

“Statement ends.”

♣

It takes another couple of cups of tea to go over everything else important, to answer questions like “what can you do?” and “holy shit you have multiple eyes?”, and Tim cracks a couple of jokes about Jon’s apparent Google-like abilities, before they’re all satisfied with what they know.

“I would like more insight on what’s happening”, Sasha gestures to herself, “to me. But if it’s not an imminent threat, it can wait for another day.”

“Of course”, is all Jon says. His voice is hoarse after a day like this, after both giving a statement and answering all these questions. And with a conversation centred on the Fears, the Eye in the back of his mind perked up every now and then just to enjoy the sharing of knowledge. It leaves him drained of all energy, leaves him bare and shivering and so very, very exhausted.

And still, there is more to talk about.

The three of them are about to leave, gathering their things, leaving their cups in the sink, Daisy has yet to return, but Jon knows it will take her the better part of an hour to get back.

“Martin?”, he asks, “A word in private?” His hands dance in front of him, unsure if he should reach out, or keep to himself, hovering in an uncertain space between them.

Martin turns to him. Tim already stands at the door, Sasha just behind him, but he’s still in earshot and gives Jon both thumbs up.

“Of course”, Martin says, a smile tugging on his lips. It’s the first honest smile Jon has seen on him today.

“Take your time, boys!”, Tim calls. “We’ll be at the car, Martin!”

“Wait, I wanted”, but before Sasha can finish, Tim ushers her out and closes the door behind him – not without one last wink, though.

Martin sighs. “Sorry about him, but”, he shrugs, “you know Tim.”

“I… I do.”

Then there’s silence and Jon can’t break it. They need to talk, he doesn’t want to, but they have to. He can’t leave Martin hanging like this, it’s cruel, he doesn’t deserve this. Oh no. Martin deserves better, he deserves everything. A kind touch, a soft voice telling him they love him, he deserves the world. And Jon is well aware how little he can give him.

“Martin”, he says, his hands still between them, not reaching out, just fidgeting with the hem of his shirtsleeves, his eyes firmly planted on his shoes. “Martin, I- I am… aware about how, I am aware our relationship will, will change under these… circumstances. However” _I can’t. I knew this would hurt, I knew it and I wanted it anyway._ “I just, you have to know, I didn’t… I didn’t mean to lie to you… about this.”

Martin chuckles softly. “I didn’t think so, Jon.”

And the way he says his name, soft, soothing, like cotton drying all the unshed tears that hide behind a thousand eyes, it has Jon shiver, has him finally reach out. And Martin takes his hand without hesitation. His touch is warm and soft as his hands always are, so very different from the harsh scars on his own palm and the calloused tips of his fingers.

“Even if you had tried to tell me, I doubt I would have believed you.”

“Right”, Jon clears his throat, “Just, just so you know, I – I quite enjoyed our time together. And I am deeply sorry that it had to come to such an abrupt end.”

“I- Jon wait!” Martin tugs at his hand and Jon goes easily, like a moth drawn to flame, so ready to burn in an embrace that promises more warmth than his body can bear. “End? What? Why?”

Jon holds his hand still, clings on. It will not be the warmth that hurts him, it will be the loss of it. It was always the end he feared the most. The tragedy that follows his every step.

“I, I am not holding anything against you, Martin.” Jon cannot stop his voice from shaking, he doesn’t try, just gives in easily. “Going out with, I’m- Going out with someone, something like me, I”

“No.” Martin pulls him again, closer even until Jon can lean his head against his chest. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“If, Martin I – I swear I won’t hold it against you if you decide to… decide that you don’t, that you might want to leave. I want to promise you to never get into your head, but I can’t. It’s not something I want to do, but sometimes it’s… I sometimes can’t help it and you might not want me around and”

“No. Jon, no, that’s – no.” Martin lets go of Jon’s hands, but he misses his touch for only a second, before his hands cradle his face and he lifts his chin with the gentlest of forces. “No. I want you around, I want you around so much you can’t imagine, I … Jon, I, we have a date, don’t we? Tomorrow evening?”

Martin looks down to him and all Jon can do is stand under his gaze. His fingers ghost over the back of Martin’s hand, so lightly, Jon can barely feel the touch himself. His eyes are wide, and Jon is pinned to the spot by nothing but the intensity of Martin’s gaze.

“We do.” His words are so light, barely there, barely even real. But they speak the future into existence and they carry the weight of a thousand unsaid promises.

“We really do.”

_I love you. I love you so much. I cannot stand to lose you so please please please_

“Never worry, Jon.” Martin’s thumb follows the curve of Jon’s cheekbone. “I won’t leave you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative titles for this chapter include, but are not limited to:  
> \- Exposition, explanation, talking talking talking  
> \- How to reassure your place in the world ... and a heart  
> \- A Guest for Our Archivist
> 
> Next up: Tim tries to “help”, a decision is made, and Martin loses the privilege to deny his and Jon’s dates are dates at all


	23. How to be happy … embarrassingly so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin loses the privilege to deny his and Jon’s dates are dates at all, a decision is made, and Tim tries to “help”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Tim makes a non-explicit sexual joke, and sex is mentioned, but not discussed

A lot of things change over time. Seasons, weather, people. But on days like today, Martin finds himself grateful for the things that stay the same, things he knows well and can therefore enjoy with practiced ease. Like the routine he built himself over the last few months. How he visits Jon every Wednesday for lunch, goes out with Tim and Sasha to the pub on Friday evening; his weekends are spent at Jon’s except when he leaves for his knitting group on Saturday afternoon.

A Saturday like today.

In the last couple of weeks, spring made its presence known more and more and it’s now significantly warmer than it was when Martin moved here. And with the change in weather, there comes a change in wardrobe and in different activities people do outside. However, there are things that never change, not even as the world keeps on turning.

That’s why Martin is currently sitting on the steps to Jon’s porch, a cup of warm tea and his empty plate next to him, with a notebook on his lap, chewing on a pencil, all while Jon is hauling around the huge watering can he insists is not too heavy for him, even though it’s as big as his torso.

“Need any help?”, Martin asks, already knowing what Jon’s answer will be.

“I am”, Jon says, lifting the watering can as high as he can, which is not very high at all, “very much”, one step, “capable”, another step, “to do this.”

It looks horrendously ridiculous as he drags the can behind him. The hem of his shirt riding up every time he stretches and tries his best to move a container that’s surely half his weight.

“You know I would help you if you just asked.”

Jon grunts. “The only one in need of help are these dramatic rose bushes, who are”, he kicks the seam of his skirt, “completely out of it. This water is perfectly fine, don’t be ridiculous.”

Right at his collar, where his shirt lies loose a third eye peeks out. It blinks lazily, not there to really see, just to help process, Martin knows that by now. He also found out how very real those eyes are and how it hurts Jon if he tries to poke them.

“Are they complaining again?” Martin sets his notebook down, his pencil between the pages.

“When are they ever not?” Jon lifts the back of the can up and a tiny stream of water trickles down and into the waiting earth. Almost immediately, as the water hits the ground, a second eye joins the one at his collar, blinking lazily against the mid-morning sun.

Jon’s eyes are brown, speckled with lighter and darker flecks like freckles on his iris. These eyes, Martin has watched them sprout on his body from time to time, have the same colouring unless Jon does something with them. If he is currently _Knowing_ something, the eyes turn green – softly at first, like dawn breaking over fields, then it grows stronger, more intense, until they shine, like the light of the newly born sun.

Right now, both extra eyes are brown. He might call them dull if they weren’t Jon’s eyes. And both blink slowly as they turn to Martin, catching him watching.

“Ah”, he says, but it’s too late. The eyes close once more, this time their lids fuse with the skin surrounding them and the soft curve around the eyeballs smooths away. When Martin looks up again, he meets Jon’s gaze; his two human eyes the only eyes he has now.

“I apologise”, Jon says, his voice small, cautious.

“Don’t.” All he can do is give his best to be reassuring, so he shakes his head and holds out his hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

But Jon doesn’t take his hand, just gives him a somewhat precarious smile, before he drags his watering can further to the right, away from his overdramatic roses and to the hydrangeas waiting for their own drink.

 _I can’t believe I’ve never noticed,_ Martin doesn’t say. _All the small things make so much more sense now._

One day, in the future, he will tell him what he thinks of his eyes, his ticks, how much he adores the way he stubbornly insists his system of sorting books is more thought through than just “the shelves I can reach without crouching or stepping on a chair hold the books I liked the most”. Even the way he scrunches up his entire face when Martin dares to question his shelving has Martin’s heart soaring.

And one day, in the future, he will tell him so. He will hold his hand and pull him close and whisper his “I love you” with the gentlest of voices into his hair.

But today is not the right time. Today, he has a different question for him, a different set of problems to talk about.

“So, I have been thinking”, Martin starts, when Jon moves on from his hydrangeas to his poppies, “about what you said.”

Jon looks up from where he’s dragging his watering can closer and closer to the porch. “And what did I say again?”

“You say a lot of things over the day.”

“I have a lot of things to say.” He sets the can down for good now and turns to face Martin entirely. “Is there something wrong?”

Martin lifts his hand up again, just a suggestion, a silent invitation. This time, Jon takes it. With just a couple of steps he’s at the porch and his hand slides into Martin’s. The roughness of his palm, the pressure of his fingers around Martin’s, it’s all so familiar by now, it leaves him smiling every time. He pulls on his arm and Jon comes willingly, closer until he stands in front of Martin, for once looking down at him and not up.

“It’s nothing supernatural if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

“So I don’t have to call Annabelle and tell her to stop spying on you?”

“She- what?” Martin sputters. “Jon, does she really do that?”

Much to his dismay, Jon just laughs. “No, Martin, she does not. She has better things to do. Someone has to wear the crown jewels in their free time. And she has her Wednesday lunch with Oliver. And- Martin? What’s with that face?”

“Ah, nothing.” As quickly as he can, Martin forces his face to loosen his expression into something akin to a smile, but judging by the look Jon gives him, he isn’t very successful.

“Is it bothering you? This whole”, Jon waves his hand vaguely, “thing with the fears.”

“No, no, it’s… fine. I mean, it’s not, obviously. But I can live with it. I can even enjoy living”, _with you,_ “uhm like this. It’s still the same world, right?”

“Yes?” Jon doesn’t let up. “You don’t look happy about it.”

“Really, Jon, it’s not a big deal I just…” He sighs. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Jon doesn’t seem convinced, but he finally drops the matter even though he clearly doesn’t want to.

“If it’s any consolation, it’s not about your Archivist thing or any of the Fears.”

“I-“, he says, but then just shrugs. “So you said it’s not about the Fears?”

“Oh. Yes, right.” They were talking about something important. He can’t let himself get side tracked this easily.

“So?” Jon leans forward, just to Really drive home his point.

“Yes, so.” Martin clears his throat. “Remember when I told you my dad had contacted me again?”

“I do?” Jon’s frown deepens.

“And how you said it’s my decision alone if I want him back in my life and I shouldn’t just do it out of pity?”

He nods. “That certainly sounds like something I would say, yes.”

“Right, so, here’s the thing.” Once more, Martin clears his throat, with his other hand, he traps Jon’s between his. “My dad invited me over for dinner again. A nice dinner on Friday evening – not the next Friday, the one after that one. And because he lives quite a few hours away, he’s – I mean he suggested I could stay the night, they have a spare room I could sleep in. And”, he shrugs, “I thought it might be a nice idea to at least give him a chance. Or just try to find out who he actually is and who his family is and all that. And he then asked if I might, y’know?”

When Martin looks up at him, Jon scowls down at him. His face is as overcast as the sky, thunder clouds brewing behind his eyes, ready to release their wrath upon whatever it is that Martin’s father has asked for this time.

“He asked if I would be coming alone?” Martin tugs him closer still until their legs knock together. “So I was thinking, maybe you want to come with me meet my dad?”

Jon’s head snaps up fast enough to have Martin worry about his neck. “You want… you want me to come with you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Well for one part”, Martin tugs on his hand once more and Jon follows his invitation easily, lets himself be guided to the empty steps next to him, “I want you there. If I want to have an actual, I don’t know, father-son-relationship with him and get to meet all his children and his new wife, I”, he sighs, “I would like to not be alone there. If they all turn out to be horrible people, I… I mean, I wouldn’t enjoy that obviously, but I would feel better with you there.”

Jon leans into his side; his hands fiddle with Martin’s fingers like he’s trying to puzzle out whatever nonsensical formula Martin used to calculate this.

“And on the other hand”, Martin shrugs, his movement disrupting Jon for long enough to look up at him again, “I just really want you there. If they’re all really nice people? Great. But then I want them to meet you.”

“I-“ He turns his head away again, his eyes wandering back to his watering can. “What if they don’t like me?”

“Jon, they will have to deal with me most of the time we’re there, so before they don’t like you, they will probably not like me first.”

He means it as a joke as he always does, his own laugh already sits on his lips, but Jon suddenly tightens his hold on his hands, his head turning back to him once again.

“Martin, don’t. You’re lovely, amazing even. How could they not love you?”

Jon’s words are stones and poison disguised as feathers and tea. He means them, Martin can feel it deep, deep down he means them, but they fall from his lips into Martin’s body, cracking open a glass case of doubts and pains and a thousand unshed tears. How could they not love him? Because he takes up more space than he should, his laugh too loud, his hands to eagerly grabbing for anything to do – meant to help but used to hinder all the time. Because he stutters when he gets nervous and he gets nervous often. And, the most important point, because he clings. He holds on, always does. Holds on to a mother that doesn’t want him, holds on to a memory that never happened, holds on to Jon’s hands like they are his lifeline.

 _Because it’s me,_ he doesn’t say.

“There’s always a chance”, he says, his smile an old lie, an old friend. “But you don’t have to come, you can stay home, it was just a stupid idea, just a thought. And my dad, it’s a stupid misunderstanding, but he actually thinks I have a girlfriend?” Martin shrugs. “Better to clear that up as quickly as possible I guess.”

“Ah”, Jon says next to him. He lifts his gaze again, his eyes piercing as they always are, but not supernaturally so. “Yes, I… if you want, that is, I can, it’s not like I really, you know? Care. All that much about”, he flaps his hand through the air, “ _that._ But if you want to, I wouldn’t mind, if you’re more comfortable with that.”

“With what?”

“You know?” Jon kicks the seam of his skirt again. “Gender? It’s terribly constricting. I do prefer _he_ for myself, though I have some older friends who use a variety of other pronouns for me – with my explicit permission to do so, of course.” He adds before the shocked look on Martin’s face can fester. “But if you rather prefer to call me your “girlfriend” when introducing me to your father, I will not complain.”

Martin frowns. “But… but would you like that?”

All Jon does is shrug and wait expectantly for Martin’s answer. He’s still holding onto Martin’s hand, feeling his fingers and his palm, smoothing over his skin like a cat kneading a pillow.

“Jon”, Martin repeats, “would you like that? Because I won’t do it if you don’t want me to. If you tell me, in your words “Martin, I want you to introduce me to your father as your girlfriend”, then yes, gladly, I will definitely do that, no questions asked. So? Do you want me to?”

This time, Jon laughs. His voice rings out, siren-like, enthralling. It’s a melody in itself, a music piece Martin cannot decipher, cannot catch with all the flowery words he puts to paper day after day spend with him. If the music all avatars hear from their Fears is as beautiful as Jon’s laugh in his ears, then he can understand how desperate they all were to reach its source, to break everything else apart. All he wants in this moment is to stay here. Sitting on Jon’s porch, holding his hand, hearing his laugh. It will be all he needs for a thousand years.

“Honestly, your impression of my voice is rather good.” If possible, Jon leans even closer into him. “I actually prefer “partner”. It’s neutral and applicable in a lot of different situations without endangering anyone involved or forcing someone out of their closet. Though I’m really not uncomfortable with your father assuming I’m your girlfriend. Maybe a little inconsiderate of him, but I haven’t met him yet.”

“Yet.” Martin lifts his arm a little, just a suggestion, his heart in his throat. The second he moves, Jon ducks underneath and lets him lay his arm around his shoulders, one of his hands still holding onto his. This close, Martin can count the speckles in his eyes, the deep brown broken up by lighter and even darker browns like an engraving of the night sky in two copper sheets. He has his hair up, a bright green hair tie he probably stole from Sasha peeks through the dark curls.

For a long moment, before and after Jon blinks and Martin feels like he can count all his eyelashes, for a long moment, he longs for nothing else than to lean down and kiss him. Nothing else is important, nothing else is real, except for the rough scars on Jon’s hand, his eyes staring up at him, and his lips pulled up into that smirk Martin has dreamt about for so long.

“So?”, he asks, more a breath than an actual question.

Jon’s other hand currently not occupied with holding onto Martin, finds its way to his face. Martin’s cheek fits perfectly into his palm, like a puzzle piece slotting into place, a key sliding into its lock.

“Yes, Martin”, Jon says, “I’ll come and visit your family with you.”

_I love you. I love your voice and your eyes and your hands. And I love the way you say my name, the way you smile when you think I can’t see you, the way you talk to your roses, I can never stop loving you._

“Thank you”, Martin says, his thoughts louder than his words. “It shouldn’t even be that bad, not with you there.”

Again, Jon laughs his melody, calling him closer yet, promising him a soft landing after the initial fall. And Martin fell for him too deeply to hope for help any longer.

♣

All in all, even with the reveal of fourteen (plus one) Fear Entities playing with human lives, Martin can’t help it but wonder if this might actually be the closest he has ever come to knowing real happiness. Every morning, he nods to his little note that keeps telling him that “Everything will be okay :)” and he already thought about taking it down. His headaches barely come these days, which leads him to believe his doctor was actually right when he concluded they were easily triggered due to unhelpful amounts of stress. His work at the centre also evened out after the rave-ritual they didn’t prevent (Tim likes to say they did, just to annoy Sasha and make Sarah jealous because she wasn’t there). And his love life is going, well it’s going. He and Jon still have things to talk about, but they are clearly something, they are clearly happy. And is that not enough?

All in all, Martin can’t help himself but wonder if this is his happy ending he never dared to believe in. After a lifetime of unknowns, he wants to believe in it, wants to make it real for himself and those he loves. He needs to make this last for as long as possible. Taste every second like it’s the last, because one day, it will be. And he will only know what he lost after it’s gone.

So when he makes it to work Monday morning, he can’t stop himself from smiling like a madman. He woke up to a text from Jon, still had leftover from last night so he didn’t have to make breakfast, and the weather is pleasant.

“Well, well, well, well”, Tim greets him with. “If it isn’t our Martin.”

He’s grinning so widely, Martin doesn’t need supernatural Eye-powers to know he’s going to be a menace today.

“It is I, Martin”, he says as he slides onto his chair, the stack of statements not smaller than when he left them on Friday. “And it is I, who has to sort through all these.”

Still, the amounts of work ahead of him can’t douse his mood in the slightest. If he didn’t know any better, he would call this contentment.

“Yes, it is.” Tim leans forward, over his desk. “Where were you this weekend? Spending some quality time with Jon?”

“You don’t have to answer this, Martin”, Sasha says without looking up from her reports. “Tim actually has to work on his cases for a while.”

“I’m done with reorganisation”, Tim frowns down at his own papers.

“Yes, but we still have the entire room full of paper that, if kept too long under sunlight, will crumble and die like the Roman Empire did.”

“Oh but Sasha, I’m already elbow deep in a different investigation.” Tim throws half his upper body onto his desk, his arms raised over his head. “I can’t do all of this alone.”

“Is your other project bothering Martin about his relationship?”

 _His relationship._ Martin only just resists the urge to duck his head.

Tim props his head up on his hands. “It might. So will you leave me to my investigation?”

“Isn’t that what your break is for?”, Sasha says but it’s as close to permission to proceed as she will give him. She is, even if she wouldn’t be caught dead saying it, just as interested in her co-workers’ private lives as Tim.

“I can multitask”, Tim says before he turns to Martin. Next to him, Sarah snorts, but she doesn’t say anything, just works on her reports.

“So! Marto, To-Marto, Martin-i, Martin! How was your weekend?”

“It was… I mean, I just had a… normal weekend?”

“Good to know.” Tim grins. “How’s Jon?”

“He is…” How is Jon? He’s perfect, he’s everything Martin didn’t dare to hope for when he moved here. He’s a dream he only ever dreamed in the darkest times of his life, when he nearly forgot what light even looked like, what love should feel like.

“He is good.” The words are inadequate, barely enough to show how much space he takes up in Martin’s life. He’s good in the same way the sun is warm, the same way snow is chilly, he is more, but it’s okay for now. It’s enough.

Martin smiles down at his paperwork, barely registering the wolfish grin overtaking Tim’s face.

“Oh? So he’s good?”

“Uhm, yes?” This time Martin looks up. “Tim why are you smiling like that?”

“Oh nothing, nothing. Say, you didn’t by any chance spend the weekend at Jon’s? Again?”

Heat colours his cheeks pink in a matter of seconds. “I- I might. What- How would you even know?”

“Oh, it’s nothing big.” He shrugs. “Just a little bird, telling me all the secrets I could possibly want.”

At this point, Sarah sets her statement down. “I told Tim you came to pick Jon up again, last Friday afternoon. You remember, when I came to pick up Clara after school, I stayed behind a bit just to thank him for the… parasite help.” She shivers slightly. “Yes, I told Tim you went home with him.”

“And then!”, Tim chimes back in, “I figured out through my extensive detective skills, you definitely spend the weekend with him.”

“Extensive detective skills?” Martin’s face isn’t as pink anymore, the heat little more than a last leftover warmth. “So you saw how I favour my right hand to carry my bag, which I only do after visiting Jon for a weekend, for some reason completely unrelated with me being righthanded?”

“Something like that, I have my ways.” Tim winks. “I just hope you guys use protection.”

Martin splutters. His blush darkens, overtakes his entire face first, then creeps down over his shoulders to his chest within the ten seconds he needs to compose himself again. Tim, however, doesn’t do him the courtesy to leave off after just this.

“I know how easy it is to forget these things, Martin”, he nods, waggles a finger like he’s trying to explain these matters to an unwilling teenager, “but they are there for a good reason. And condoms are easy to get. Really, if you’re short after the weekend, I can slide you some.”

“Oh god, Tim, stop!” Martin wagers his entire body is burning up with embarrassment, like a schoolboy caught in a discussion he really, really doesn’t want to have.

“Sorry, sorry, just looking out for my friends.” He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. “But if you ever need anything…” He trails off, but the implications are obvious.

“No; I don’t- we don’t- it’s not as if… oh god.” Martin groans into his hands, his skin burning under his fingers. “I didn’t- Tim, really, we haven’t even, you know?” He makes a vague gesture with his hand to nothing in particular. “So, no.”

“Tim”, Sasha says, and Martin doesn’t even have to look up to know she’s grinning, too. “Don’t be mean.”

“I’m not! Just stating facts. They’re both adults, Martin spends most of his weekends at Jon’s anyway, it’s a fair assumption!”

Martin mumbles something into his hands, unsure if he wants to say it out loud again.

“Pardon?”, Tim says of course.

“We haven’t even kissed”, he repeats into his hands, barely louder than before, but by the gasp Tim gives, he can be sure he heard.

“No!”

Martin drops his hands, his face still bright red. “It just never came up!”

“Martin Jameskins Blackwood!”

“Still not my name.”

“Still making a point.” Tim shakes his head. “I could have sworn you told me at length about how great a kisser Jon is?”

“That was you, Tim”, Sasha says, chin in her palm, “you just really like to talk to yourself.”

“Oh yeah right, that was me.”

“If we’re done with my- my love life”, his blush has no way to become even darker than it already is, “can I get to work now?”

Sasha chuckles. “Martin, do you know how obviously in love you are?”

“You positively adore Jon!”

“Yes, thanks Tim. What I was going to say was: Martin, you have a habit of staring at Jon like he’s one of your poems and you’re really proud of how it turned out.”

“I”, Martin clears his throat, “I think that might- you’re taking this out of proportion.”

“Am I? Really? Because I think I’m not.” Martin is about to disagree, but Sasha holds up both hands to stop him. “Okay, maybe just talk to Jon? You know he doesn’t like asking us for things, with all the”, she gestures to her mouth, “compulsion stuff going on.”

“But what if that’s not it”, Martin says, “I don’t want to make this all weird.”

It’s not like he hadn’t thought about kissing Jon yet, he has his weaker moments, when all he can think about is the soft curve of his lips, the way he tilts his head when they hug. Kissing Jon is a daydream Martin has indulged in far too often. And a couple of times even with Jon right next to him. It leaves him feeling queasy, like he’s doing something forbidden and getting away with it.

His daydreams become more and more elaborate the longer he’s with Jon – the idea of them being a thing, a relationship still doesn’t sit right with him. Having a partner, _being_ Jon’s partner, it leaves a weird taste in the back of his throat. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be, but he isn’t sure if he _can_.

His love can be suffocating and painful in all the ways love shouldn’t be. He forces all he has onto people who never wanted any of it. His former boyfriends found him annoying after a while, his mum couldn’t even look at him at the end. Yes, he has a routine with Jon. Yes, he sometimes (always, all the time) wishes he could just pull him close and kiss him silly. But no, he won’t bring it up.

He cannot risk suffocating him, too, cannot stand him leaving, not yet. He will. Eventually. Jon, too, will lose the rose-coloured glasses of whatever little crush has him staying with Martin, and then he’ll see him for what he really is. But until then, Martin is not going to push his luck. He could not live with a loss quite so quickly.

“Don’t worry about it, Martin!”, Tim says. “Just leave everything to me. I’ll get you in the right mood.”

“I am very afraid of those words from your mouth, Tim.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll thank me afterwards.”

“That’s not helping.”

“To be fair”, Sasha says, “he can be rather romantic if he really wants to.”

Tim snaps his fingers. “Exactly, so just leave everything to me. I’m going to get you the perfect happy end.”

Martin just rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say Tim, whatever you say.”

♣

> **Tim:** What r your plans for the weekend  
>  **Tim:** Plans that don’t include Martin!
> 
> **Jon:** Tim, it’s Monday morning, I don’t know what I will be doing on the weekend yet
> 
> **Tim:** sure but if u could choose  
>  **Tim:** don’t say spending time with martin  
>  **Tim:** u do that every weekend
> 
> **Jon:** Fine.
> 
> **Tim:** u already typed it didn’t u?
> 
> **Jon:** Oh, so now you’re using basic punctuation, I see.
> 
> **Tim:** don’t try to distract me  
>  **Tim:** im not getting into another puctuation debate with u
> 
> **Jon:** You’re missing an “n” there, but very well. What do you want?
> 
> **Tim:** want to know your weekend plans  
>  **Tim:** literally what I said before  
>  **Tim:** First thing I said actually  
>  **Tim:** scroll back up
> 
> **Jon:** I don’t have any plans. Martin comes over on Friday, that’s all I know for now. He leaves again for his knitting club at four in the afternoon on Saturday.
> 
> **Tim:** does he come back?
> 
> **Jon:** Why don’t you ask him?
> 
> **Tim:** its more funny to talk to u
> 
> **Jon:** Oh is it?
> 
> **Tim:** u know how it is  
>  **Tim:** who else to ask if not spooky google
> 
> **Jon:** I do not approve of that nickname
> 
> **Tim:** too late I already ordered shirts  
>  **Tim:** anyway  
>  **Tim:** so your free on Friday evening  
>  **Tim:** uve been typing for far too long  
>  **Tim:** this is another grammar lecture isnt it
> 
> **Jon:** It’s “you’re”. The word “your” indicates possession, while “you’re” is the shortened form of “you are”. Therefore you would say “your idea”, but “you’re free”. Because it comes from “you are”.
> 
> **Tim:** Im taking that as a yes to my r u free question
> 
> **Jon:** Sure.
> 
> **Tim:** so now YOU’RE no longer free
> 
> **Jon:** I’m proud of your correct use of “you are”, but we should keep this under closer inspection in the next few weeks. It might influence your grades.  
>  **Jon:** Also, why am I no longer free? What did I agree to?
> 
> **Tim:** don’t play the teacher card u know I think that’s hot
> 
> **Jon:** =P
> 
> **Tim:** WHAT  
>  **Tim:** JON DID U JUST  
>  **Tim:** SGHGSDAF  
>  **Tim:** WHO R U AND WHAT DID U DI TO MY BEST FRIEND
> 
> **Jon:** Oh, so now I’m your best friend?
> 
> **Tim:** the title comes and goes for dramatic purposes  
>  **Tim:** also pretty sure I can have more than 1 best friend
> 
> **Jon:** Pretty sure you can’t, actually. “Best” can only be used for one thing, as it implies everything that’s not this specific thing is of lesser quality.
> 
> **Tim:** joooooooooooooooooooon  
>  **Tim:** ur infuriating
> 
> **Jon:** I know =)
> 
> **Tim:** don’t pride urself on that
> 
> **Jon:** You can’t abbreviate “you” in every word.
> 
> **Tim:** I can and I will  
>  **Tim:** but u keep distracting me with ur sexy teacher ways
> 
> **Jon:** It’s my secret superpower.
> 
> **Tim:** I thought ur secret superpower was the eye thing
> 
> **Jon:** It is.
> 
> **Tim:** anyway!!!  
>  **Tim:** u r no longer free on Friday!!!  
>  **Tim:** ure going out with us!!
> 
> **Jon:** And who is “us” if I’m allowed to ask?
> 
> **Tim:** guess  
>  **Tim:** no wait don’t guess  
>  **Tim:** ur just gonna know it all spookily
> 
> **Jon** : So tell me?
> 
> **Tim:** its our fave Martooo, then Sash, and idk if Sarah wants to come maybe
> 
> **Jon:** Sarah Anderson? Wonderful, I can give her the reports for her daughter’s review. She was sick for quite a while, so she will be delighted to know she’s doing well again.
> 
> **Tim:** y r u no fun  
>  **Tim:** I know u r fun  
>  **Tim:** y do u never show that  
>  **Tim:** ever
> 
> **Jon:** I can only repeat my earlier statement once again.
> 
> **Tim:** which one
> 
> **Jon:** =P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half this chapter was typed on my old brick laptop because I have two superpowers: 1. all electronics I own will live at least double their supposed life, but also 2. the second the electronics reach this age, they die. They die. Instant death.
> 
> Next up: Elias doesn’t understand a simple “No”, hearing Jon sing “my love” will be the cause of Martin’s death, and Tim might have made a mistake

**Author's Note:**

> If anybody wants to chat, my Tumblr is [clubsheartsspades](https://clubsheartsspades.tumblr.com/) feel free to hop over.


End file.
